


The Princess Bride, a Cinematic Novelisation

by 22KeyPHOENIX



Category: Princess Bride (1987), The Princess Bride - Simon Morgenstern, The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: ... - Freeform, Are you kidding? - Freeform, Bedtime Stories, Canon Rewrite, Chases, Escapes, F/M, Fencing, Fighting, Gen, Giants, Miracles, Monsters, Revenge, Torture, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/22KeyPHOENIX/pseuds/22KeyPHOENIX
Summary: Who loves the Princess Bride movie? It’s fantastic. But when I picked up the book, I was thrown off by all of Goldman's fake footnotes (sometimes in the midst of paragraphs). I just wanted to read the story as it is with all my favorite characters and all my favorite scenes and then some.So, out of love, I’ve went ahead and started rewriting the story. Into what it should have been, scene for scene in the hopes of finally getting it right. A little artistic liberty has been taken, of course, but overall I’m rather satisfied with this more bedtime story friendly version.
Relationships: Buttercup/Westley (Princess Bride)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter One — THE BRIDE

**Princess Bride, by S. Morgenstern,**

**Rewrite by Ple’az Gowato Beiad**

**Chapter One. THE BRIDE**

Buttercup was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin. Her favorite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm boy that worked there. His name was Westley, but she never called him that. What she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to ride her horse and taunt the farm boy.

The horse's name was "Horse" (Buttercup was never long on imagination) and it came when she called it, went where she steered it, did what she told it. The farm boy did what she told him too. Actually, he was more a young man now, but he had been a farm boy when, orphaned, he had come to work for her father, and Buttercup referred to him that way still.

Nothing gave Buttercup as much pleasure as ordering Westley around.

Not riding her fathers prized horses over the valleys and mounds of the local lands, nor the looks of rage upon the faces of girls in town walking with their men when she passed by.

“Farm Boy, polish my horse's saddle.” Buttercup told the boy, strolling into the the stable kicking up mud and dirt every which way. He was cleaning the droppings, and putting in new hay, which was a task that took a long time, and an even longer one to clean oneself up afterwords.

“I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”

“As you wish.” Westly answered.

"As you wish' was all he ever said to her." That was all he ever answered. "As you wish." Fetch that, Farm Boy. "As you wish." Dry this, Farm Boy. "As you wish." He lived in a hovel out near the animals and, according to Buttercup's mother, he kept it clean. He even read when he had candles.

"I'll leave the lad an acre in my will," Buttercup's father was fond of saying.

"You'll spoil him," Buttercup's mother always answered.

"He's slaved for many years; hard work should be rewarded." Then, rather than continue the argument, they would both turn on their daughter.

"You didn't bathe," her father said.

"I did, I did" from Buttercup.

"Not with water," her father continued. "You reek like a stallion."

"I've been riding all day," Buttercup explained.

"You must bathe, Buttercup," her mother joined in. "The boys don't like their girls to smell of stables."

"Oh, the boys!" Buttercup fairly exploded. "I do not care about 'the boys.' Horse loves me and that is quite sufficient, thank you."

She said that speech loud, and she said it often.

But, like it or not, things were beginning to happen.

Shortly before her sixteenth birthday, Buttercup realized that it had now been more than a month since any girl in the village had spoken to her. She had never much been close to girls, so the change was nothing sharp, but at least before there were head nods exchanged when she rode through the village or along the cart tracks. But now, for no reason, there was nothing. A quick glance away as she approached, that was all. Buttercup cornered Cornelia one morning at the blacksmith's and asked about the silence.

"I should think, after what you've done, you'd have the courtesy not to pretend to ask" came from Cornelia.

"And what have I done?"

"What? What? . . . You've stolen them."

With that, Cornelia fled, but Buttercup understood; she knew who "them" was.

The boys.

The village boys.

The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined

sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys.

How could anybody accuse her of stealing them? Why would anybody want them

anyway? What good were they? All they did was pester and vex and annoy. "Can I brush your horse, Buttercup?"

"Thank you, but the farm boy does that."

"Can I go riding with you, Buttercup?"

"Thank you, but I really do enjoy myself alone."

"You think you're too good for anybody, don't you, Buttercup?"

"No, no I don't. I just like riding by myself, that's all."

But throughout her sixteenth year, even this kind of talk gave way to stammering and flushing and, at the very best, questions about the weather. "Do you think it's going to rain,Buttercup?"

"I don't think so; the sky is blue."

"Well, it might rain."

"Yes, I suppose it might."

"You think you're too good for anybody, don't you, Buttercup?"

"No, I just don't think it's going to rain, that's all."

At night, more often than not, they would congregate in the dark beyond her window and laugh about her. She ignored them. Usually the laughter would give way to insult. She paid them no mind. If they grew too damaging, the farm boy handled things, emerging silently from his hovel, thrashing a few of them, sending them flying. She never failed to thank him when he did this.

"As you wish" was all he ever answered.

As time passed, the persistence of the boys grew. Matched only by the snood glares of the girls in town. Buttercup found that her beauty, as ethereal as it was, served to push people away, lest they fall in love with her & become drool dim-headed messes. At these times, it was just her horse who would provide her with company, not expecting anything in return save for a apple and the occasional lump of a sugar cube. Nobody but her horse, and the farm boy.

No matter what sort of day Buttercup had, the farm boy could be relied upon. In rain he would wait with a lit lantern at the mouth of the stables. Where any other boy would be ogling her wet form, soaked to the britches as it was from riding, the Farm boy would have dry towels ready for her. No matter how late she rode.

One time she tried riding late into the early hours of the night, it was a full moon, and she had gotten lost in the shimmer of the light under the thrum of Horse’s breath beneath her. Still, even then, the Farm boy was awake, waiting for her Patiently. As reliable as a rock in a roaring river. Stable for those who could reach a hand out to grab, and merciless against those who would try to control the rapids.

Buttercup grew herself to rely on the Farm boy, as he was kind and gentle, expecting nothing in return.

Months had passed, and in the process, day by day, little by little she found herself caring more about him. Not for any reason like love, no there was no way…

Just... When the Farm boy would stay up late, waiting for her to return from her late night rides to take care of Horse and be tired the next day, she would distract her father from taking it out so hard on him. It wasn’t love. Couldn’t be. Buttercup was only looking out for the boy so that she could continue her rides.

Yes, that must be it. She nodded to herself. Couldn’t — Wouldn’t be anything else.

On one particular afternoon, where nothing extraordinarily special had happened in a week since last Thursday, she wandered over behind a small cabin touting a jug, eager to get these strange thoughts out her mind, and torment the Farm boy.

“Farm boy, fill these with water...”

The Farm boy looked at her. He looked a her with the same intense gaze that Buttercup had taken as condensation, but perhaps meant something more. He was chopping wood blocks, his hair was all covered in sweat sticking to his face obscuring his eyes. A large pile of wood was littered on the ground around him.

“...Please.”

“As you wish.” He said, nodding his head.

Buttercups eyes looked the boy down and up. Her mouth was slightly open, she was overwhelmed with feeling. Butter cup took a step back, and then another one, and a few more — hurrying away from the Farm boy.

Something, and she wasn't particularly sure what, made her look back some distance later over her shoulder. The Farm boy stood there, gazing at her with the same expression he always had. That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘as you wish’, what he meant was, ‘I love you.’

And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.

She was in a cottage, preparing food on a small table and kneading bread while the Farm boy was carrying in wood for the kilns fire. He walked in carrying armload's of heavy dry wood behind her back. His presence startled her out of adding in yeast, and she waited for him to turn to look at her.

Yet, Westley dropped the wood in a neat pile by the kiln, but not so close as to catch fire, and turned around heading for the door.

“Farm boy...” Buttercup began, catching Westley’s attention and seeing his head look behind his shoulder at her. Her gaze darted down to the neat bundles of firewood, trying to find an excuse or reason for him to stick around, before darting up higher, and spotting the clay jugs just out of reach.

“...Fetch me that pitcher.”

Westley walked forward into cottage, taking his time, and focusing not on the pitcher out of reach, but on her eyes. He strode forward, somehow eager and calm all at the same time. Like the Grey clouds before a storm.

Keeping the eye contact, he reached with one arm for the clay jug, easily pulling it off the hook and gently, ever so tenderly, passed it to her with both hands while softly whispering.

“As you wish.” Westley said, dirt smudges and the signs of hard work abundant on his face looking at the beauty in front of him.

Buttercup, standing with her back to the window, smiled in a way she hadn’t in weeks. With the sun shining a halo through her hair, her lip ever so gently biting itself, unable to keep the grin from forming, the most beautiful thing in that cabin was not buttercup, but rather the love that was growing between the two.

As you wish.

I love you.

Their love was like the stars and the moon. At first glance, seeming to be separate entities, yet on closer inspection, linked more naturally than the earth and the sky.

To Buttercup, Westley’s love was like the stars on a clear summers night. Warm, and inviting. More than single acts of light against an uncaring inky backdrop; His love was as vast as all the stars, everyplace you looked, galaxies in their own right, as infinite and as deep as the horizon itself. Spiraling into each other, all part of a deeper web and pattern.

Buttercup was rendered breathless by her discovery, the very air stolen from her lungs, heart thrumming in mad love.

Was this what Love was?

Westley’s love permeated everything in his existence, in every single one of his actions, and far older than Buttercup knew. How could he love her when she treated him so poorly in the past? Yet, somehow against all odds, he’d seen through her facade and opened his heart to her.

They say One only gets to know the stars by observing them at night. But even during the day, those pale motes of light are still there. Stable as safe. As reliable as the North Star. A North Star that was all Buttercups own.

To Westley, Buttercups love was like the Waxing moon. Always there, large and out of reach in the sky. Impossible to ignore (not that you could), and more breathtaking as it shined fuller every night. Did she know the power she had over him? Over everyone around her?How could she, when her very presence caused the tides to soar and the earth itself to rise. She was as beautiful as a force of nature, mysterious and otherworldly. The kind that generations of poets lament over, trying to capture in words, and failing every time.

His heart soared like an eagle at the secret smiles she started sending his way. Her kisses were enough to reduce him to a shell of a man, where nothing in the world mattered but their lips against a silhouette of the setting sun.

Like the moon, Buttercups affections spilled into the daytime hours. It was after all, improper to be with a Farm boy, not when her mother had such high hopes & aspirations. But, like the afternoon moon, soon it became to obvious to see to ignore.

“You see lad,” Buttercups father said one day, “I trust ye with m’life, which is why I’ve let it go on so long between ye-two. But if you’re not serious about marriage, I’ll have to ask you to break it off gently with m’ daughter.”

Westley had no money for marriage, so he packed a few belongings and left the farm to seek his fortune across the sea. It was a very emotional time for Buttercup.

“I fear I'll never see you again.” Buttercup told Westley, engulfing him in a hug, making one last memory of the feeling of her head in the crook of his neck by the farm gates as they were saying their goodbyes. He smelled like slightly musky scent, and the rich polish of wood.

“Of course you will.” Westley replied, doing the exact same. He was breathing deeply to memorize the smell of her hair against his face. Vanilla. Vanilla with the smell of horse hair. Even her daily bathing couldn’t get rid of her love of riding.

“But what if something happens to you?” Buttercup asked with worry. Her frame smaller, more vulnerable, retreating into itself.

Westley, hearing this, pulled himself away and looked directly into Buttercups eyes, watching the breeze bat playfully at her hair like a kitten.

“Hear this now,” Westley reassured her, stroking her face with his hand. “I will always come for you.”

“But,” Buttercup asked, leaning into Westley’s hand while searching for something in his face,“how can you be sure?

“This is True Love.” Westley answered, a smile tugging at his lips. “You think this happens every day?”

Buttercup reassured by his words and feelings smiled herself, before the two kissed one last time. Tenderly with a heavy heart, but quick pecks, lest they get enamored and distracted.

Westley held both of Buttercups hands gently, squeezing them a bit goodbye before hitching his bag up and heading to port. To sail across the the Mediterranean in search of better fortunes.

Westley didn't reach his destination. His ship was attacked by the dread pirate Roberts, who never left captives alive. When Buttercup got the news that Westley was murdered, she went into her room and shut the door, and for days she neither slept nor ate.

She simply stared at her nightly fire, set up the way Westley taught her. She stared at the fire, the logs crackling and hissing, every-time another needed to go on feeling a pang in her chest.

How could she continue to live like this? When the stars themselves and the night sky mocked her pain. A reminder of their love turned against her, one she would see to the end of her days.

For 3 days she sat, hardly moving and reflecting upon the memories of Westley until her sorrow overwhelmed the tears. There are a few times in most people’s lives when something so tragic happens that the entire world gets flipped upside down. Heartbreak is more than just a word, for those who’ve experienced it, and lived to tell the tale. They say there’s a literal snap. A moment where the grief of loosing your love is compounded upon realization of having your dreams vanish in smoke. Of all the days that should have been promised taken away, and rage at the ones who took them.

“I will never love again.” Buttercup muttered aloud, getting up, and leaving the room.

She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. 

The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering.

She was eighteen.

She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years.

She didn't seem to care.

"You're all right?" her mother asked.

Buttercup sipped her cocoa. "Fine," she said.

"You're sure?" her father wondered.

"Yes," Buttercup replied. There was a very long pause. 

"But I must never love again."

She never did.


	2. Chapter Two — THE GROOM

**Chapter Two**

**THE GROOM**

Prince Humperdinck was shaped like a barrel. His chest was a great barrel chest, his thighs mighty barrel thighs. He was not tall but he weighed close to 250 pounds, brick hard. He walked like a crab, side to side, and probably if he had wanted to be a ballet dancer, he would have been doomed to a miserable life of endless frustration. But he didn't want to be a ballet dancer. He wasn't in that much of a hurry to be king either. Even war, at which he excelled, took second place in his affections. Everything took second place in his affections.

Hunting was his love.

He made it a practice never to let a day go by without killing something. It didn't much matter what. When he first grew dedicated, he killed only big things: elephants or pythons. But then, as his skills increased, he began to enjoy the suffering of little beasts too. He could happily spend an afternoon tracking a flying squirrel across forests or a rainbow trout down rivers. Once he was determined, once he had focused on an object, the Prince was relentless. He never tired, never wavered, neither ate nor slept. It was death chess and he was international grand master.

In the beginning, he traversed the world for opposition. But travel consumed time, ships and horses being what they were, and the time away from Florin was worrying. There always had to be a male heir to the throne, and as long as his father was alive, there was no problem. But someday his father would die and then the Prince would be the king and he would have to select a queen to supply an heir for the day of his own death.

So to avoid the problem of absence, Prince Humperdinck built the Zoo of Death. He designed it himself with Count Rugen's help, and he sent his hirelings across the world to stock it for him. It was kept brimming with things that he could hunt, and it really wasn't like any other animal sanctuary anywhere.

In the first place, there were never any visitors. Only the albino keeper, to make sure the beasts were properly fed, and that there was never any sickness or weakness inside.

The other thing about the Zoo was that it was mostly underground. The Prince picked the spot himself, in the quietest, remotest corner of the castle grounds. And he decreed there were to be five levels, all with the proper needs for his individual enemies.

On the first level, he put enemies of speed: wild dogs, cheetahs, hummingbirds. It took up the entire walled off section of the remote palace grounds, serving as both a deterrent and security system. For who in their right mind would willingly travel to a spot where mountain lions stalked the woods. It was known as the Forest of Speed.

Towards the end of the Zoo, all the way at the very end of the grounds, through the Forest of Speed, nestled up against strong stone walls, was the entrance building for the Underground section. It was known simply as The Inverse Tower.

On the second level (as the first level was the grounds the fast cats lived), belonged the enemies of strength: anacondas and rhinos and crocodiles of over twenty feet. The third level was for poisoners: spitting cobras, jumping spiders, death bats galore. The fourth level was the kingdom of the most dangerous, the enemies of fear: the shrieking tarantula (the only spider capable of sound), the blood eagle (the only bird that thrived on human flesh), plus, in its own black pool, the sucking squid.

Even the albino shivered during feeding time on the fourth level.

The fifth level was empty.

The fifth level was secret.

The fifth level was inaccessible from the Inverse Tower.

It was only known to the Albino, the Count, and the Prince himself.

The Prince constructed it in the hopes of someday finding something worthy, something as dangerous and fierce and powerful as he was. Unlikely. Still, he was an eternal optimist, so he kept the great cage of the fifth level always in readiness.

The Fifth level spanned a great majority of the Zoo of Death’s floorspace. Subterranean, and vast, it went underneath the entirety of the Inverse Tower, and extended into the Forest of Speed. The entrance was built into a gnarled oak tree, in the midst of the most dangerous territory with wolves, cheetahs, and hyenas spitting distance away.

It was known as The Pit of Despair, and everyone who entered it died.

The Count took over most of the floor with all manner of machines and tools, each more gruesome than the last, built with cruelty in mind. Torture devices of his own invention. All for the purpose of what he considered his life’s purpose, writing a ultimate compendium about the definitive work on the subject of pain.

And there was really more than enough that was lethal on the other four levels to keep a man happy. The Prince would sometimes choose his prey by luck—he had a great wheel with a spinner and on the outside of the wheel was a picture of every animal in the Zoo and he would twirl the spinner at breakfast, and wherever it stopped, the albino would ready that breed.

Sometimes he would choose by mood: "I feel quick today; fetch me a cheetah" or "I feel strong today, release a rhino." And whatever he requested, of course, was done.

He was ringing down the curtain on an orangutan when the business of the King's health made its ultimate intrusion. It was midafternoon, and the Prince had been grappling with the giant beast since morning, and finally, after all these hours, the hairy thing was weakening.

Again and again, the monkey tried to bite, a sure sign of failure of strength in the arms. The Prince warded off the attempted bites with ease, and the ape was heaving at the chest now, desperate for air.

The Prince made a crablike step sidewise, then another, then darted forward, spun the great beast into his arms, began applying pressure to the spine. (This was all taking place in the ape pit, where the Prince had his pleasure with any simians.) From up above now, Count Rugen's voice interrupted. "There is news," the Count said.

From battle, the Prince replied. "Cannot it wait?"

"For how long?" asked the Count.

**C**

**R**

**A**

**C**

**K**

The orangutan fell like a rag doll. "Now, what is all this," the Prince replied, stepping past the dead beast, mounting the ladder out of the pit.

"Your father has had his annual physical," the Count said. "I have the report."

"And?"

"Your father is dying."

"Drat!" said the Prince. "That means I shall have to get married."

“Yes sire, that it does.” Said the Count. “But, perhaps there is something we can do to turn this situation to our advantage.”

“What sort of advantage do you have in mind?” The Prince asked, having climbed out of the pit and taking his gloves off. He always preferred to wear gloves while strangling animals, orangutan fur was such a chore to remove from the fingernails otherwise.

“I believe the answer to finally getting the citizens of Florin to backa war.”

“Oh?” The Prince asked, raising a brow. He turned back the Ape Pit, watching the Albino entering through a secret door with a wheelbarrow and struggling to lift the orangutan onto it.

“Walk with me,” The Prince began striding away towards the Castle, “we’ll discuss it over dinner in detail.”

“Cooked orangutan?” Said the Count smirking out of the corner of his mouth. “Must we? It’s struggled for hours, surely the meat is tough.”

“Seems a shame to waste it otherwise.” The Prince and the Count strode up the stairs side-by-side.

“Besides, I hear you can soften it with Vodka. Might as well utilize something from that naive ’peace offering’ the Polish sent. As if they think a small trinket will generate enough goodwill.”

He laughed cruelly.

“Preposterous.”

“Indeed.” The Count replied. “Now then,” he gestured towards the castle, “shall we?”

“If we must Tyrone, only if we must...”

The two Dark men walked off, into the bright afternoon sun, full of resolve for their dark purpose. To decide not only the trajectory of Prince Humperdinck’s future, but of the very country of Florin itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones mostly from the book, with a lot of edits, and a few hundred more words for exposition. Apparently the original book didn’t have a Pit of Despair, and I found the concept of an entire secret Zoo of Death to be unrealistic.
> 
> Little bit of creative liberty to have a Death Zoo that’s known to people, and in that area have the Pit of Despair. Plus a bit more fleshing out of the Characters, for bedtime-or-sick-storytelling-purposes


	3. Chapter Three — THE COURTSHIP

**Chapter Three**

**THE COURTSHIP**

Four of them met in the great council room of the castle. Prince Humperdinck, his confidant, Count Rugen, his father, aging King Lotharon, and Queen Bella, his evil stepmother.

Queen Bella was shaped like a gumdrop. And colored like a raspberry. She was easily the most beloved person in the kingdom, and had been married to the King long before he began mumbling. Prince Humperdinck was but a child then, and since the only stepmothers he knew were the evil ones from stories, he always called Bella that or "E. S." for short.

She wasn’t actually evil. Prince Humperdinck called her that becauseshe disallowed his from hunting as a child.

"All right," the Prince began when they were all assembled. "Who do I marry? Let's pick a bride and get it done."

Aging King Lotharon said, "I've been thinking it's really getting to be about time for Humperdinck to pick a bride." He didn't actually so much say that as mumble it: "I've beee mumbbble mumbbble Humpmummmble engamumble."

Queen Bella was the only one who bothered ferreting out his meanings any more. "You couldn't be righter, dear," she said, and she patted his royal robes.

"What did he say?"

"He said whoever we decided on would be getting a thunderously handsome prince for a lifetime companion."

"Tell him he's looking quite well himself," the Prince returned.

"We've only just changed miracle men," the Queen said. "That accounts for the improvement."

"You mean you fired Miracle Max?" Prince Humperdinck said. "I thought he was the only one left."

"No, we found another one up in the mountains and he's quite extraordinary. Old, of course, but then, who wants a young miracle man?"

"Tell him I've changed miracle men," King Lotharon said. It came out: "Tell mumble mirumble mumble."

"What did he say?" the Prince wondered.

"He said a man of your importance couldn't marry just any princess."

"True, true," Prince Humperdinck said. He sighed. Deeply. "I suppose that means Noreena."

"That would certainly be a perfect match politically," Count Rugen allowed. Princess Noreena was from Guilder, the country that lay just across Florin Channel.

In any case, the two countries had stayed alive over the centuries mainly by warring on each other. There had been the Olive War, the Tuna Fish Discrepancy, which almost bankrupted both nations, the Roman Rift, which did send them both into insolvency, only to be followed by the Discord of the Emeralds, in which they both got rich again, chiefly by banding together for a brief period and robbing everybody within sailing distance.

"I wonder if she hunts, though," said Humperdinck. "I don't care so much about personality, just so they're good with a knife."

"I saw her several years ago," Queen Bella said. "She seemed lovely, though hardly muscular. I would describe her more as a knitter than a doer. But again, lovely."

"Skin?" asked the Prince.

"Marbleish," answered the Queen.

"Lips?"

"Number or color?" asked the Queen.

"Color, E. S."

"Roseish. Cheeks the same. Eyes largeish, one blue, one green."

"Hmmm," said Humperdinck. "And form?"

"Hourglassish. Always clothed divineishly. And, of course, famous throughout Guilder for the largest hat collection in the world."

"Well, let's bring her over here for some state occasion and have a look at her," said the Prince.

"Isn't there a princess in Guilder that would be about the right age?" said the King. It came out: "Mum-cess Guilble, abumble mumble?"

"Are you never wrong?" said Queen Bella, and she smiled into the weakening eyes of her ruler.

"What did he say?" wondered the Prince.

"That I should leave this very day with an invitation," replied the Queen.

So began the great visit of the Princess Noreena.

Noreena did have, as advertised, marbleish skin, roseish lips and cheeks, largeish eyes, one blue, one green, hourglassish form, and easily the most extraordinary collection of hats ever assembled. Wide brimmed and narrow, some tall, some not, some fancy, some colorful, some plaid, some plain. She doted on changing hats at every opportunity.

When she met the Prince, she was wearing one hat, when he asked her for a stroll, she excused herself, shortly to return wearing another, equally flattering. Things went on like this throughout the day, with Prince Humperdinck getting more and more infuriated with having to wait for the Princess to change hats. Hours passed this way, with the two of them making small talk, figuring each other out, until it came time for Dinner.

Dinner was held in the Great Hall of Lotharon's castle. Ordinarily, they would all have supped in the dining room, but, for an event of this importance, that place was simply too small. So tables were placed end to end along the center of the Great Hall, an enormous drafty spot that was given to being chilly even in the summertime. There were many doors and giant entrance ways, and the wind gusts sometimes reached gale force.

This night was more typical than less; the winds whistled constantly and the candles constantly needed relighting, and some of the more daringly dressed ladies shivered. But Prince Humperdinck didn't seem to mind, and in Florin, if he didn't, you didn't either.

At 8:23 there seemed every chance of a lasting alliance starting between Florin and Guilder. At 8:24 the two nations were very close to war.

What happened was simply this: at 8:23 and five seconds, the main course of the evening was ready for serving. The main course was essence of brandied pig, and you need a lot of it to serve five hundred people. So in order to hasten the serving, a giant double door that led from the kitchen to the Great Hall was opened. The giant double door was on the north end of the room. The door remained open throughout what followed.

The proper wine for essence of brandied pig was in readiness behind the double door that led eventually to the wine cellar. This double door was opened at 8:23 and ten seconds in order that the dozen wine stewards could get their kegs quickly to the eaters. This double door, it might be noted, was at the south end of the room.

At this point, an unusually strong cross wind was clearly evident. Prince Humperdinck did not notice, because at that moment, he was whispering with the Princess Noreena of Guilder. He was cheek to cheek with her, his head under her wide-brimmed blue-green hat, which brought out the exquisite color in both of her largeish eyes.

At 8:23 and twenty seconds, King Lotharon made his somewhat belated entrance to the dinner. He was always belated now, had been for years, and in the past people had been known to starve before he got there. But of late, meals just began without him, which was fine with him, since his new miracle man had taken him off meals anyway. The King entered through the King's Door, a huge hinged thing that only he was allowed to use. It took several servants in excellent condition to work it. It should be reported that the King's Door was always in the east side of any room, since the King was, of all people, closest to the sun.

What happened then has been variously described as a norther or a sou'wester, depending on where you were seated in the room when it struck, but all hands agree on one thing: at 8:23 and twenty-five seconds, it was pretty gusty in the Great Hall.

Most of the candles lost their flames and toppled, which was only important because a few of them fell, still burning, into the small kerosene cups that were placed here and there across the banquet table so that the essence of brandied pig could be properly flaming when served. Servants rushed in from all over to put out the flames, and they did a good enough job, considering that everything in the room was flying this way, that way, fans and scarves and hats.

Particularly the hat of Princess Noreena.

It flew off to the wall behind her, where she quickly retrieved it and put it properly on.

That was at 8:23 and fifty seconds. It was too late.

At 8:23:55 Prince Humperdinck rose roaring, the veins in his thick neck etched like hemp. There were still flames in some places, and their redness reddened his already blood-filled face. He looked, as he stood there, like a barrel on fire. He then said to Princess Noreena of Guilder the five words that brought the nations to the brink.

"Madam, feel free to flee!"

And with that he stormed from the Great Hall. The time was then 8:24. Prince Humperdinck made his angry way to the balcony above the Great Hall and stared down at the chaos. The fires were still in places flaming red, guests were pouring out through the doors and Princess Noreena, hatted and faint, was being carried by her servants far from view.

Queen Bella finally caught up with the Prince, who stormed along the balcony clearly not yet in control. "I do wish you hadn't been quite so blunt," Queen Bella said.

The Prince whirled on her. "I'm not marrying any bald princess, and that's that!"

"No one would know," Queen Bella explained. "She has hats even for sleeping."

"I would know," cried the Prince. "Did you see the candlelight reflecting off her skull?"

"But things would have been so good with Guilder," the Queen said, addressing herself half to the Prince, half to Count Rugen, who now joined them.

"Forget about Guilder. I'll conquer it sometime. I've been wanting to ever since I was a kid anyway." He approached the Queen. "People snicker behind your back when you've got a bald wife, and I can do without that, thank you. You'll just have to find someone else."

"Who?"

"Find me somebody, she should just look nice, that's all."

"That Noreena has no hair," King Lotharon said, puffing up to the others. "Nor-umble mumble humble."

"Thank you for pointing that out, dear," said Queen Bella.

"I don't think Humperdinck will like that," said the King. "Dumble Humble Mumble."

Then Count Rugen stepped forward. "You want someone who looks nice; but what if she's a commoner?"

"The commoner the better," Prince Humperdinck replied, pacing again.

"What if she can't hunt?" the Count went on.

"I don't care if she can't spell," the Prince said. Suddenly he stopped and faced them all. "I'll tell you what I want," he began then. "I want someone who is so beautiful that when you see her you say, 'Wow, that Humperdinck must be some kind of fella to have a wife like that.' Search the country, search the world, just find her!"

Count Rugen could only smile. "She is already found," he said.

It was dawn when the two horsemen reined in at the hilltop. Count Rugen rode a splendid black horse, large, perfect, powerful. The Prince rode one of his whites. It made

Rugen's mount seem like a plow puller.

"She delivers milk in the mornings," Count Rugen said.

"And she is truly-without-question-no-possibility-of-error beautiful?"

"She was something of a mess when I saw her," the Count admitted. "But the potential was overwhelming."

"A milkmaid." The Prince ran the words across his rough tongue. "I don't know that I could wed one of them even under the best of conditions. People might snicker that she was the best I could do."

"True," the Count admitted. "If you prefer, we can ride back to Florin City without waiting."

"We've come this far," the Prince said. "We might as well wai—" His voice quite simply died. "I'll take her," he managed, finally, as Buttercup rode slowly by below them.

"No one will snicker, I think," the Count said.

"I must court her now," said the Prince. "Leave us alone for a minute." He rode the white expertly down the hill.

Buttercup had never seen such a giant beast. Or such a rider.

"I am your Prince and you will marry me," Humperdinck said.

Buttercup whispered, "I am your servant and I refuse."

"I am your Prince and you cannot refuse."

"I am your loyal servant and I just did."

"Refusal means death."

"Kill me then."

"I am your Prince and I'm not that bad—how could you rather be dead than married to me?"

"Because," Buttercup said, "marriage involves love, and that is not a pastime at which I excel. I tried once, and it went badly, and I am sworn never to love another."

"Love?" said Prince Humperdinck. "Who mentioned love? Not me, I can tell you. Look: there must always be a male heir to the throne of Florin. That's me. Once my father dies, there won't be an heir, just a king. That's me again. When that happens, I'll marry and have children until there is a son. So you can either marry me and be the richest and most powerful woman in a thousand miles and give turkeys away at Christmas and provide me a son. Or you can die in terrible pain in the very near future. Make up your own mind."

"I'll never love you."

“I wouldn't want it if I had it.”

“Then by all means let us marry.”

“Then by all means, come along.”

Buttercup gathered her things and bade goodbye for her parents. Her mother was overjoyed.“A princess!” She cried tears of joy. “You’ve made me so proud.”

Buttercup didn’t know what to feel. Westley was gone, and life seemed empty. The prince seemed the opposite of Westley in every way. Rich, in a position of power, with a team of servants to act on his every whim. But cruel to Westley’s kind, heartless to Westley’s compassion, selfish to Westley’s selflessness.

“Come along miss.” Count Rugen, “we’ll take you to get cleaned up first.”

“And then?”

“Etiquette lessons. Lots of them I’m afraid.”

What with one thing and another, three years passed.


	4. Chapter Four — THE ABDUCTION

**Chapter four**

**THE ABDUCTION**

Three years later, the main square of Florin City was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great Prince Humperdinck's bride-to-be. At noontime, Prince Humperdinck appeared at the balcony of his father's castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which by now was at the danger size, slowly quieted.

The crowd had begun forming some forty hours earlier, but up to twenty-four hours before, there were still fewer than one thousand. But, as the moment of introduction grew nearer, from across the country the people came.

“My people, a month from now, our country will have its 500th anniversary. On that sundown, I shallmarry a lady who was once a commoner like yourselves. But perhaps you will not find her common now. Would you like to meet her?”

“Yes!” The people shouted.

The crowd began to stir now—it was to be this lady they had heard so much about. None had ever seen the Princess, but rumors of her beauty were continual and each was less possible than the one before.

“My people,” Humperdinck began, and gestured to lower entrance, “the Princess Buttercup.”

Buttercup entered through the double doors, wearing a crown and gown. She strode forward into the crowd, past the point royalty usually stopped at.

And the crowd, quite literally, gasped.

The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. Her figure faults were gone, the too bony elbow having fleshed out nicely; the opposite pudgy wrist could not have been trimmer. Her hair, which was once the color of autumn, was still the color of autumn, except that before, she had tended it herself, whereas now she had full-time hairdressers who managed things for her. Her skin was still wintry cream, but now, with handmaidens assigned to her, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide her with a gentle, continually moving as she moved, glow.

And with that she left the balcony, and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd.

Wherever she went, the people parted. She crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of her, the people swept apart to let her pass. Buttercup continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.

Most of the people there would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored her instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting she was pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to her quality as a queen.

And, of course, there were some more who were frankly jealous.

Very few of them hated her.

And only three of them were planning to murder her.

Buttercup, naturally, knew none of this. She was smiling, and when people wanted to touch her gown, well, let them, and when they wanted to brush their skin against hers, well, let them do that too. She had studied hard to do things royally, and she wanted very much to succeed, so she kept her posture erect and her smile gentle, and that her death was so close would have only made her laugh, if someone had told her. But—

—in the farthest corner of the Great Square—

—in the highest building in the land—

—deep in the deepest shadow—

—the man in black stood waiting.

His boots were black and leather. His pants were black and his shirt. His mask was black, blacker than raven. But blackest of all were his flashing eyes. Flashing and cruel and deadly . . .

Buttercup was more than a little weary after her triumph. The touching of the crowds had exhausted her, so she rested a bit, and then, toward midafternoon, she changed into her riding clothes and went to fetch Horse. This was the one aspect of her life that had not changed in the years preceding. She still loved to ride, and every afternoon, weather permitting or not, she rode alone for several hours in the wild land beyond the castle.

She did her best thinking then.

As she rode through woods and streams and heather, her brain was awhirl. The walk through the crowds had moved her, and in a way most strange. For even though she had done nothing for three years now but train to be a princess and a queen, today was the first day she actually understood that it was all soon to be a reality.

Buttercup's emptiness consumed her. Although the law of the land gave Humperdinck the right to choose his bride, she did not love him. Despite Humperdinck's reassurances that she would grow to love him, the only joy she found was in her daily ride.

I just don't like Humperdinck, she thought. It's not that I hate him or anything. I just never see him; he's always off someplace or playing in the Zoo of Death.

Everyone had told her, since she became a princess-in-training, that she was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now she was going to be the richest and most powerful as well.

Don't expect too much from life, Buttercup told herself as she rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.

Dusk was closing in when Buttercup crested the hill. She was perhaps half an hour from the castle, and her daily ride was three-quarters done. Suddenly she reined Horse, for standing in the dimness beyond was the strangest trio she had ever seen. The man in front was dressed in fancy clothes, Sicilian perhaps, with the gentlest face, almost angelic. He was short, and very bald, with a shiny dome that light reflected save for short and meticulously grown hair on the sides. He moved forward toward her with surprising speed and nimbleness. The other two remained rooted. The second was dark, probably Spanish, was as erect and slender as the ornate blade of steel that was attached to his side. The third man was easily the biggest human being she had ever ever seen.

“A word, my lady.” The Sicilian said, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face. “We are but poor, lost circus performers. Is there a village nearby?”

“There is nothing nearby...not for miles.” Buttercup replied.

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream!” The Sicilian said gleefully and jumped with frightening agility toward her face.

That was all that Buttercup remembered. Perhaps she did scream, but if she did it was more from terror than anything else, because certainly there was no pain. His hands expertly touched places on her neck, and unconsciousness came.

She awoke to the lapping of water.

She was wrapped in a blanket and the giant was putting her in the bottom of a boat. For a moment she was about to talk, but then when they began talking, she thought it better to listen. And after she had listened for a moment, it got harder and harder to hear.

Because of the terrible pounding of her heart.

There was the sound of ripping cloth.

“What is that you're ripping?” the Spaniard asked.

"The same as I attached to her saddle," the Sicilian replied. "Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Guilder."

"Who's Gilder?" the Giant began.

“The country across the sea, the sworn enemy of Florin.” The Sicilian said, smacking the horses upon it’s rear.

“Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric make the prince suspect the Gilderians have abducted his love. When he finds her body dead on the Gilder frontier, his suspicions will be totally confirmed.”

“You never said anything about killing anyone.” The Giant spoke.

“I've hired you to help me start a war. It's a prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition.”

“I just don't think it's right,” the Giant said readying rope for the sail, “killing an innocent girl.”

“Am I going mad, or did the word "THINK" escape your lips? YOU WERE NOT HIRED FOR YOUR BRAINS, YOU HIPPOPOTAMIC LAND MASS!”

There came the sound of a flapping of sail.

"Watch your heads," the Spaniard cautioned, and then the boat was moving.

“I agree with Fezzik.” The Spaniard said after a moment. “The people of Florin will not take her death well, I shouldn't think. She has become beloved."

“OH! THE SOT HAS SPOKEN!” Vizzini stalked towards Inigo. ”WHAT HAPPENS TO HER IS NOT TRULY YOUR CONCERN. I WILL KILL HER, AND REMEMBER THIS, NEVER FORGET THIS: WHEN I FOUND YOU, YOU WERE SO SLOBBERING DRUNK, YOU COULDN'T BUY BRANDY!”

He turned and jabbed a pointing finger towards Fezzik.

“AND YOU! FRIENDLESS, BRAINLESS, HELPLESS, HOPELESS! DO YOU WANT ME TO SEND YOU BACK TO WHERE YOU WERE, UNEMPLOYED, IN GREENLAND!!!”

Vizzini turned around and stormed to the other side of the boat, letting loose a loud groan of annoyed frustration.

Inigo, seeing the hurt on Fezzik’s face walked over to cheer him up.

“That Vizzini, he can fuss.”

“Fuss, fuss...I think he like to scream... at us.”

“Probably he means no haaarm.”

“He's really very short on... charm.”

“You have a great gift for rhyme.” Inigo said smiling to Fezzik.

“Yes, yes,” Fezzik grinned back, “some of the time.”

“Enough of that!” Vizzini shouted, annoyed at the rhymes.

“Fezzik,” Inigo asked, mounting the rear sails with a wrapped rope over arm. “Are there rocks ahead?”

“If there are, we all be dead!”

“No more rhymes now, I mean it!”

“Anybody want a peanut?”

“DYEEAAHHHHHH!!” Vizzini screamed.

Through all this, Buttercup had not moved.

Minutes later, after Vizzini was done ranting, The Spaniard said, "Let's just tell her we're taking her away for ransom."

The Giant agreed. "She's so beautiful and she'd go all crazy if she knew."

"She knows already," the Sicilian said. "She's been awake for every word of this."

Buttercup lay under the blanket, not moving. How could he have known that, she wondered.

"How can you be sure?" the Spaniard asked.

"The Sicilian senses all," the Sicilian said.

Conceited, Buttercup thought.

"Yes, very conceited," the Sicilian said.

He must be a mind reader, Buttercup thought.

"Are you giving it full sail?" the Sicilian said.

"As much as is safe," the Spaniard answered from the tiller.

"We have an hour on them, so no risks yet. It will take her horse perhaps twenty-seven minutes to reach the castle, a few minutes more for them to figure out what happened and, since we left an obvious trail, they should be after us within an hour. We should reach the Cliffs by dawn and, with any luck at all, the Guilder frontier at noon, when she dies. Her body should be quite warm when the Prince reaches her mutilated form. I only wish we could stay for his grief—it should be Homeric."

Why does he let me know his plans, Buttercup wondered.

"You are going back to sleep now, my lady," the Sicilian said, and his fingers suddenly were touching her temple, her shoulder, her neck, and she was unconscious again. . . .


	5. Chapter Five — THE CHASE

**Chapter five**

**THE CHASE**

Buttercup did not know how long she was out, but they were still in the boat when she blinked, the blanket shielding her.

It was dark out, with the moon and a lantern providing the only light. The boat gently rocked, creaking and groaning.

“You can take the blanket off Highness,” Vizzini said. “There’s no use faking sleep.”

She pulled the blanket off, and saw Vizzini keeping watch, his beady eyes turned to her observing her every movement. Fezzik was resting, of to the side, but for what she didn’t know.

Inigo was at the same spot , manipulating the sail for maximum wind. He waslooking behind the boat frequently.

“We'll reach the cliffs by dawn.” Vizzini said, before looking at Inigo with curiosity. “Why are you doing that?”

“Are you sure nobody's follow us?”

“That would be inconceivable.”

“Despite what you think, you will be caught.” Buttercup said.“And when you are, the prince will see you all hanged.”

“Of all the necks on this boat, Highness, the one you should be worrying about is your own.” Vizzini paused, and turned to Inigo with annoyance. ”Stop doing that! We can all relax, it's almost over.”

“You are sure nobody's follow us?” Inigo asked, trusting the Sicilian’s smarts and analytically keen mind.

“As I told you, it would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways, inconceivable. No one in Gilder knows what we've done, and no one in Florin could've gotten here so fast.”

Vizzini leaned his head back, relaxing in the flat wood of the boat, closing his eyes. A moment later he lifted his head and looked at Inigo.

“Out of curiosity, why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Inigo shrugged. “Suddenly, I just happen to look behind us and something is there.”

They all whirled.

Something was indeed there. Less than a mile behind them across the moonlight was another sailing boat, small, painted what looked like black, with a giant sail that billowed black in the night, and a single man at the tiller. A man in black.

“Probably some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise at night...” Vizzini began, “... through eel-infested waters.”

Buttercup could not take her eyes from the great black sail. Surely the three men she was with frightened her. But somehow, for reasons she could never begin to explain, the man in black frightened her more.

Perhaps... perhaps there was something suspicious about the boat following them, the man seemed too dark and sinister to be a coincidence.

That moment, when they were all distracted, Buttercup made a choice; and dove overboard, swimming away, as far as she could, even knowing the action was futile.

Splash!

Vizzini rounded on Fezzik and Inigo. “Wha-wh-Go in! Get after her!”

“I don't swim.” Inigo said.

“I only dog paddle.” Fezzik mirrored the motion with his hands.

“DYEEAAHHHHHH!! VEER LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!” Vizzini yelled to the crew before turning to Buttercup.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT SOUND IS, HIGHNESS? THOSE ARE THE SHRIEKING EELS. IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME, JUST WAIT! THEY ALWAYS GROW LOUDER WHEN THEY'RE ABOUT TO FEED ON HUMAN FLESH.”

A large shrieking eel swam pastButtercups head. It’s open mouth had teeth as large and sharp as knifes. It’s head swam past her, and the body continued swimming, and swimming. The eel must have been twice the length of the boat. It dove underwater, and the shrieking quieted momentarily.

“IF YOU SWIM BACK NOW, I PROMISE, NO HARM WILL COME TO YOU. I DOUBT YOU'LL GET SUCH AN OFFER FROM THE EELS.”

The eels shrieks started anew. It made a line straight for her. Buttercups face consorted in horror as the head grew larger, and larger. The eel shrieked louder still, and opened its fanged mouth to bite her head when suddenly; Fezzik’s meaty hand descended smacking the eel unconscious, and another lifting her out of the water.

“Put her down, just put her down.” Vizzini commanded.

“I think he's getting closer.” Inigo said, hand wrapped in rope controlling the sails. The ship behind them was getting closer. Closer, and obviously there for them, and then alone.

“HE'S NO CONCERN OF OURS.” Vizzini shouted concerned. “SAIL ON!”

The boat splashed and Buttercup shivered. Vizzini forced her hands together and began binding them in rope.

“I suppose you think you're brave, don't you?” He said, tugging the ropes, tying them painfully tight as retaliation for daring to run.

“Only compared to some.” Buttercup replied with defiance.

“Look! He's right on top of us.” Inigo worried before contemplating aloud. “I wonder if he's using the same wind we are using.”

The boat broke through the early morning fog, and in the distance something became visible.

“WHOEVER HE IS, HE'S TOO LATE. SEE? THE CLIFFS OF INSANITY! HURRY UP! MOVE THE THING! AND THAT OTHER THING!”

And there they were. Rising straight and sheer from the water, a thousand feet into the sky. They provided the most direct route between Florin and Guilder, but no one ever used them, sailing instead the long way, many miles around. Not that the Cliffs were impossible to scale; two men were known to have climbed them in the last century alone.

“MOVE IT!” Vizzini yelled. “We're safe. Only Fezzik is strong enough to go up our way. He'll have to sail around for hours till he finds a harbor.”

Buttercup did not understand. Going up the Cliffs could hardly be done she thought; and no one had ever mentioned secret passages through them. Yet here they were, sailing closer and closer to the mighty rocks, now surely less than a quarter-mile away. For the first time the Sicilian allowed himself a smile.

The Cliffs of Insanity were very close now.

The Spaniard maneuvered the craft expertly, which was not easy, and the waves were rolling in toward the rocks now and the spray was blinding. Buttercup shielded her eyes and put her head straight back, staring up into the darkness toward the top, which seemed shrouded and out of reach.

Then the Sicilian bounded forward, and as the ship reached the cliff face, he jumped up and suddenly there was a rope in his hand. Buttercup stared in silent astonishment. The rope, thick and strong, seemed to travel all the way up the Cliffs. As she watched, the Sicilian pulled at the rope again and again and it held firm. It was attached to something at the top—a giant rock, a towering tree, something.

"Fast now," the Sicilian ordered. "If he is following us, which of course is not within the realm of human experience, but if he is, we've got to reach the top and cut the rope off before he can climb up after us."

"Climb?" Buttercup said. "I would never be able to—"

"Hush!" the Sicilian ordered her. "Get ready!" he ordered the Spaniard. "Sink it," he ordered the Giant.

And then everyone got busy. The Spaniard took a leather harness out and started fiddling with the buckles.The Giant raised a great leg and stomped down at the center of the boat, which gave way immediately and began to sink. Then the Giant went to the rope and took it in his hands.

"Load me," Fezzik said.

The Spaniard lifted the harness over the Giant and tightened a few buckles, he strapped Buttercup and draped her body around the Giants side. Then he strapped himself to the other side . Then the Sicilian hopped, clinging to the Turk's neck and front.

Buttercups hands were still tied together, the Spaniard has strapped her tight to the leather harness. She could scarcely move, the only thing left untouched was her head. Out of curiosity she looked up the Cliffside, and gasped in horror.

The Cliffs of Insanity were aptly made. The dawn light was cresting over the top, causing the sheer length to stand in harsh conflict with the rest of the sky. It was so high that Buttercup felt as if she was looking from the top. Where a single missed action would cause her to plummet to her death.

With that Fezzik began to climb. It was at least a thousand feet and he was carrying the three, but he was not worried. When it came to power, nothing worried him. When it came to reading, he got knots in the middle of his stomach, and when it came to writing, he broke out in a cold sweat, and when addition was mentioned or, worse, long division, he always changed the subject right away.

But strength had never been his enemy. He could take the kick of a horse on his chest and not fall backward. He could take a hundred-pound flour sack between his legs and scissor it open without thinking. He had once held an elephant aloft using only the muscles in his back.

But his real might lay in his arms. There had never, not in a thousand years, been arms to match Fezzik's. The arms were not only Gargantuan and totally obedient and surprisingly quick, but they were also, and this is why he never worried, tireless.

If you gave him an ax and told him to chop down a forest, his legs might give out from having to support so much weight for so long, or the ax might shatter from the punishment of killing so many trees, but Fezzik's arms would be as fresh tomorrow as today.

And so, even with the Sicilian on his neck and the Princess and the Spaniard at his waist, Fezzik did not feel in the least bit put upon. He was actually quite happy, because it was only when he was requested to use his might that he felt he wasn't a bother to everybody.

Up he climbed, arm over arm, arm over arm, two hundred feet now above the water, eight hundred feet now to go.

More than any of them, the Sicilian was afraid of heights. All of his nightmares, and they were never far from him when he slept, dealt with falling. So this terrifying ascension was most difficult for him, perched as he was on the neck of the giant. Or should have been most difficult.

But he would not allow it.

From the beginning, when as a child he realized his small body would never conquer worlds, he relied on his mind. He trained it, fought it, brought it to heel. So now, three hundred feet in the night and rising higher, while he should have been trembling, he was not.

Instead he was thinking of the man in black.

There was no way anyone could have been quick enough to follow them. And yet from some devil's world that billowing black sail had appeared. How? How? The Sicilian flogged his mind to find an answer, but he found only failure. In wild frustration he took a deep breath and, in spite of his terrible fears, he looked back down toward the dark water.

The man in black was still there, sailing like lightning toward the Cliffs. He could not have been more than a quarter-mile from them now. He wasn’t sailing away looking for harbor. He landed his boat, quick as a meekrat, stepping off uncaring for its fate; and equally as slick scurrying up the rope.

“He’s climbing the rope.” Inigo said disbelievingly. “And he's gaining on us.”

“Inconceivable!” Vizzini’s eyes widened. He paused for a moment and then screamed. “FASTER!”

“I thought I was going faster.” Fezzik groaned.

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THIS COLOSSUS, YOU WERE THIS GREAT LEGENDARY THING, AND YET HE GAINS!”

“Well,” Fezzik said, straining as Vizzini’s knees were kicking into his diaphragm. “I'm carrying three people, and he's got only himself.”

“I DO NOT ACCEPT EXCUSES! I'M JUST GOING TO HAVE TO FIND MYSELF A NEW GIANT, THAT'S ALL.”

“Don't say that, Vizzini. Please?”

“DID I MAKE IT CLEAR THAT YOUR JOB IS AT STAKE?”

He looked down again.

The man in black had gained another hundred feet. He looked up now. The cliff tops were beginning to come into view. Perhaps a hundred and fifty feet more and they were safe.

Tied hand and foot, sick with fear, Buttercup wasn't sure what she wanted to happen.

Except this much she knew: she didn't want to go through anything like it again.

"Fly, Fezzik!" the Sicilian screamed. "A hundred feet to go."

Fezzik flew. He cleared his mind of everything but ropes and arms and fingers, and his

arms pulled and his fingers gripped and the rope held taut and—

"He's over halfway," the Spaniard said.

"Halfway to doom is where he is," the Sicilian said. "We're fifty feet from safety, and once we're there and I cut the rope . . ." He allowed himself to laugh.

Forty feet.

Fezzik pulled.

Twenty.

Ten.

It was over. Fezzik had done it. They had reached the top of the Cliffs, and first the Sicilian jumped off and then the Giant removed the Princess, and as the Spaniard untied himself, he looked back over the Cliffs.

The man in black was no more than three hundred feet away. The Sicilian ran over to the large boulder, pulled out his ornate dagger, and began sawing the three-braided rope.

"It seems a shame," the Giant said, looking down alongside the Spaniard. "Such a climber deserves better than—" He stopped talking then.

The Sicilian cut the final strand, and the weight of the rope snapped the last fibers. The rope seemed almost alive, the greatest of all water serpents heading at last for home. It whipped across the cliff tops, spiraled into the Channel.

The man in black was hanging in space, clinging to the sheer rock face, seven hundred feet above the water.

“He's got very good arms.” Fezzik said after a moment of watching the man in black. Coming from him, this was a high compliment.

It was at that moment that the man in black began to climb. Not quickly, of course. And not without great effort. But still, there was no doubt that he was, in spite of the sheerness of the Cliffs, heading in an upward direction.

“HE DIDN'T FALL?” Vizzini shrieked. “INCONCEIVABLE!”

“You keep using that word.” Inigo said looking at Vizzini. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

They all paused to look at the man in black, shifting in place, his fingers finding small but strong crevices in the rocks.

“My God! He's climbing!” Inigo repeated.

The man in black was, indeed, rising. Somehow, in some almost miraculous way, his fingers were finding holds in the crevices, and he was now perhaps fifteen feet closer to the top, farther from death.

“Whoever he is, he's obviously seen us with the princess and must therefore die.” Vizzini commanded with a bit of a clearer head.

“You, carry her.” He pointed to the Giant. “We'll head straight for the Gilder frontier.” He told the Spaniard.

“Catch up when he's dead. If he falls, fine. If not, the sword.”

Inigo thought a moment, then told Vizzini; “I'm going to do him left-handed.”

“YOU KNOW WHAT A HURRY WE'RE IN”

LIs is the only way I can be satisfied. If I use my right, over too quickly.”

“Oh, have it your way!” Vizzini threw his hands up, exasperated. If the Spaniard wanted to fight left handed then so be it — they had a job to do, and a timer attached to it.

Fezzik hung back for a moment before following Vizzini’s commands. While his arms were untiring, he still knew not to underestimate other strongmen. And this man in black still climbed, fist over fist.

He must be someone of great strength to get this far. Someone Inigo should be wary of.

“You be careful. People in masks cannot be trusted.”

“I'M WAITING” Vizzini shouted.

And with that the Princess, Giant, and Sicilian hurried to the Guilder frontier. Leaving the Spaniard all alone atop the Cliff with the masked man down the cliff below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit more challenging. The script was very basic for these scenes, relying on the visuals to carry it. 
> 
> Hopefully the tone between internal introspection, and the external action (with several plausible off camera snippets) fits the tone.
> 
> I have no idea If anyone else is reading this, I’m half convinced the 16 views are just me viewing it from another browser. But if anyone is reading these and finds it interesting, I’d appreciate a comment or two regarding the issue of script VS book balancing.


	6. Chapter Six — THE BATTLE OF STEEL

**Chapter Six**

**THE BATTLE OF STEEL**

Inigo moved to the cliff edge and knelt with his customary quick grace. Two hundred and fifty feet below him now, the man in black continued his painful climb. Inigo lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber's secret. For a long while,

Inigo did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study. Finally, he realized that somehow, by some mystery, the man in black was making fists and jamming them into the rocks, and using them for support. Then he would reach up with his other hand, until he found a high split in the rock, and make another fist and jam it in.

Whenever he could find support for his feet, he would use it, but mostly it was the jammed fists that made the climbing possible.

Inigo marveled. What a truly extraordinary adventurer this man in black must be. He was close enough now for Inigo to realize that the man was masked, a black hood covering all but his features. Another outlaw? Perhaps. Then why should they have to fight and for what?

Inigo shook his head. It was a shame that such a fellow must die, but he had his orders, so there it was. Sometimes he did not like Vizzini’s commands, but what could he do?

Without the brains of the Sicilian, he, Inigo, would never be able to command jobs of this caliber. The Sicilian was a master planner. Inigo was a creature of the moment. The Sicilian said "kill him," so why waste sympathy on the man in black. Someday someone would kill Inigo, and the world would not stop to mourn.

He stood now, quickly jumping to his feet, his blade-thin body ready. For action. Only, the man in black was still many feet away.

There was nothing to do but wait for him. Inigo hated waiting. So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his great, his only, love:

The six-fingered sword.

How it danced in the sunlight. How glorious and true. Inigo brought it up and paired a few invisible thrusts, warming himself up for the potential dual, should the masked man ever make it atop the cliff.

Truth be told, Inigo wanted to fight this masked stranger. The sheer arm strength he possessed was formidable, and Inigo lived for the trill of the fight.

“Hello there! Slow going?” Inigo shouted to the man, impatience getting the best of him.

“Look, I don't mean to be rude,” the masked man said, “but this is not as easy as it looks, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me.”

“Sorry.” Inigo said, stepping away from the cliff.

“Thank you.” The Masked man tersely replied.

Inigo waited a moment more, before impatience got a hold of him. He strode back to the cliff.

“I do not suppose you could a-speed things up?”

The masked man huffed.

“If you're in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find something useful to do.”

“I could do that. I still got some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.”

“That does put a damper on our relationship.”

“But,” Inigo said, “I promise I will not kill you until you reach the top.”

“That's very comforting,” The masked man nodded, “but I'm afraid you'll just have to wait.”

“I hate waiting.” Inigo mumbled under breath, turning away disappointed.

“I could give you my word as a Spaniard....”

“No good.” The man strained reaching another hand higher. “I've known too many Spaniards.”

“Is there not any way you'll trust me?” Inigo asked, more sure than ever he wanted to fight the Masked stranger.

“Nothing comes to mind.”

Inigo thought for a moment. This man had honor, principles; despite the mask he was wearing or his purpose, this was a swordsman of high caliber. Someone like him, an artist. One who deserves mutual respect.

“I swear, on the soul of my father, Domingo Montoya, you will reach the top alive.”

The masked man looked up at Inigo, squinted and judged him for a moment. Was he the kind of man who would lie, or would truthfully help? One man to another, as per the code of sword fighting.

“Throw me the rope.”

Inigo ran to the boulder, and loosened a few wrapped sections, before running to the cliff side and throwingthe rope over.

He watched the man grab the rope and begin climbing, his muscles straining. Inigo pulled them rope, helping him reach the top faster still. The masked man came closer, 50 feet, 30 feet, 10 feet... 5 feet.

The masked man scrambled to the top. Inigo reached, grabbing his right arm, and pulling him the final bit onto the top.

“Thank you.” The Masked man said, reaching to draw his swords left handed from its scabbard behind his back.

“W-w-w-w-we'll wait until you are ready.” Inigo waves him down.

“Again, thank you.” The masked man sat on a rock and took off his boot. He turned his boot upside down, and shook small rocks and pebbles out.

“I do not mean to pry,” Inigo began, “but you don't by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?”

The masked man peered at Inigo. He raised a eyebrow beneath his mask, not that Inigo could see it, and paused the shaking of his boot.

“Do you always begin conversations this way?”

Inigo spoke frankly. “My father was slaughtered by a six-fingered man.”

The masked man lowered his boot, and stuck out his black gloved hand.

Five fingers.

Inigo relaxed and began telling his story.

“Was a great sword-maker, my father. When the six- fingered man appear and request a special sword, my father took the job. He slave a year before it was done.”

Inigo removed his sword and passed it to the masked man. Among those sworn to the blade, there were certain rules one had to follow. He was literally giving the stranger his only sword, his most prized possession, to admire & counting on his honor to keep face. It was a mirror of Inigo tossing the man the rope, where his life was in Inigo’s hands.

A gamble.

Inigo’s life was in the masked man hands. Should he be anything but honorable, Inigo would no doubt be stabbed clean through in scarcely a moment.

“I've never seen its equal.” The Masked man agreed, tilting the blade, feeling is perfectly balanced weight and hypnotic shine.

He passed the sword back to Inigo gently.

“Six-fingered man returned and demanded it, but at one-tenth his promised price. My father refuse.”

Inigo gently, and obviously lifted the sword to sheath back in his scabbard. He held his hand around the blade, and lifted it far higher than one could feasibly attack with. It was protocol after all.

“Without a word, the six-fingered man slash him through the heart. I loved my father, so naturally I challenged his murderer to a duel.”

“I fail.” Inigo shrugged.

“Six-fingered man leave me alive. But he give me this.”

Inigo turned his cheek and showed a scar traveling along his jawline, and the mirrored one on the other side.

“How old were you?” The Masked man asked.

“I was eleven years old.” Inigo answered sorrowful, with arms crossed.

“When I was a-strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing, so the next time we meet, I will not fail.” He wiggled his finger as if saying no to a child or misbehaving pet.

“I will go up to the six-fingered man and say, ‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’"

“You've done nothing but study swordplay?” The Masked man asked incredulously.

“More a pursuit than a study, later.” Inigo took a few steps forward and sad down beside the masked man.

Like equals.

Yes, they still would fight in a moment, but Inigo hasn’t had anyone to tell his story to whom would actually listen like this man in the black mask.

“You see, I cannot find him. It has been twenty years now and I am starting to lose confidence. I just work for Vizzini to pay the bills. It's not a lot of money in revenge.”

“Well, I-I certainly hope you find him someday.” The man said standing up and taking a few steps forward before reaching for his sword.

“You are ready, then?” Inigo stood tall and reached for his sword right handed. And so saying he took the six-fingered sword.

And put it into his left hand.

He had begun all his duels left-handed lately.

He was the only living Grand Master in the world with his regular hand, the right, still, he was more than worthy with his left. Perhaps thirty men alive were his equal when he used his left.

Perhaps as many as fifty; perhaps as few as ten.

“Whether I am or not, you've been more than fair.”

He pulled his sword out behind his back sinking into a ready stance.

The man in black was also left-handed and that warmed Inigo; it made things fairer. His weakness against the other man's strength. All to the good.

"You seem a decent fellow," Inigo said. "I hate to kill you."

"You seem a decent fellow," answered the man in black. "I hate to die."

Inigo nodded his head agreeing. And without a further word said: “Begin.”

Inigo stood and gazed his eyes, surveying the terrain over which they would battle. It was a splendid plateau, really, filled with trees for dodging around and roots for tripping over and small rocks for losing your balance on and boulders for leaping off if you could climb on them fast enough, and parts of a weather worn fortress that used to be a watch-post castle, and bathing everything, the entire spot, sunlight filtered through the clouds.

One could not ask for a more suitable testing ground for a duel, Inigo decided. It had everything, including the marvelous Cliffs at one end, beyond which was the wonderful thousand-foot drop, always something to bear in mind when one was planning tactics. It was perfect. The place was perfect.

Provided the man in black could fence.

Really fence.

Please, Inigo thought.

It has been so long since I have been tested, let this man test me. Let him be a glorious swordsman. Let him be both quick and fast, smart and strong. Give him a matchless mind for tactics, a background the equal of mine.

Please, please, it's been so long: let—him—be—a—master!

They touched swords, and the man in black immediately began the Agrippa defense, which Inigo felt was sound, considering the rocky terrain, for the Agrippa kept the feet stationary at first, and made the chances of slipping minimal.

He reached his sword forward prodding the man’s defenses.

Clang! Clang!

Swish.

They both lowered their swords and took a few steps changing position.

This time the man in black lunged.

Clang! Clang!

Swish!

Inigo had to smile. No one had taken the attack against him in so long and it was thrilling! He let the man in black advance, let him build up courage, as the two let loose a flurry of swings.

Clang.

Clang—clang.

Clang—clang—clang—clang—clang—swish.

Inigo swung his sword intending to cut the man from the side, the man ducked, and Inigo committed to the pirouette turn lest he make himself open.

The two jumped back into a flurry of motion, Inigo forcing the man in black slowly up a large boulder behind him.

“You are using Bonetti's defense against me, uh?” Inigo said amidst the fury of blades.

“I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain.”

“Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro.”

“Naturally,” the man in black agreed, “but I find that Thibault cancels Capo Ferro, don't you?”

Inigo slashed his sword causing the Masked man to jump back off the edge of the boulder onto the plateau.

“Unless the enemy hasn't studied his Agrippa—”

Inigo ran forward and jumped, doing a twisting somersaultmid air, and landing sword pointing straight at the mans heart.

“—which I have!”

Inigo has backed the man up with a boulder behind him, leaving him no space to dodge.

The man didn’t dodge. Instead he let loose a wave of sword blows that forced Inigo back, back away from the boulder and towards the cliff side.

“You are wonderful!” Inigo shouted among the fury.

“Thank you. I've worked hard to become so.”

“I admit it,” Inigo admitted, “you are better than I am.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I know something you don't know.”

“And what is that?”

“I am not left-handed.” Inigo replied, and with those words, he all but threw the six-fingered sword into his right hand, and the tide of battle turned.

The man in black retreated before the slashing of the great sword. He tried to side-step, tried to parry, tried to somehow escape the doom that was now inevitable. But there was no way. He could block fifty thrusts; the fifty-first flicked through. He could thwart thirty ripostes, but not the thirty-first.

Quickly the clanging changed to Inigo’s favor, and Inigo began forcing the Man in black backwards up stairs to what used to be a watchtower. They were fighting parallel to the Cliffs now, only the crumbling tower wall kept them from falling.

The masked man stumbled over a rock and fell on the stairs. Inigo, seeing a chance, seized it — thrusting his sword — and the masked man deflected it aside.

He thrust again!

It was deflected the other side.

The masked man jumped back, landing on the watchtower proper, with Inigo right behind him. He was now trapped, with Inigo, the superior sword man, blocking the only way.

“You're amazing!” The man in black shouted.

“I ought to be after twenty years.” Inigo agreed, forcing the man in black against the sidewall.

He was pushing hard, and already the stones were falling off the cliff.

“There is something I ought to tell you.” The masked man groaned underneath Inigo’s onslaught.

“Tell me.” Inigo quickly said, thinking this was the mans end.

The man in black smiled.

“I'm not left-handed either.”

He forced Inigo off, pushing with his right hand—

—tossed his sword in the air—

—switched footwork catching the sword right handed—

—swished it through a complicated warmup pattern—

—and lunged with great speed, disarming Inigo in scarcely a moment—

Inigo was swordless.

Inigo was wordless.

The man stood in perfect form.

He prodded towards Inigo a bit.

Inigo shuffled back the steps, amazed the man didn’t just end him, and jumped off the tower steps catching a rope suspended between stone pillars.

He swung badly, not so much as gracefully swinging towards his sword as flailing wildly to catch his balance and break the fall. He stumbled forwards, past a clump of grass, and picked his sword up off the dirt into a hasty ready position.

He looked at the masked man.

The masked man scoffed and threw his sword into the clump of grass.

Inigo looked bewildered at the swaying sword imbedded in the earth and the masked man on the tower.

The man in black jumped, grabbed the rope with both arms and spun around it once.

He let go, soaring high into the air, performing a somersault that outdid Inigo’s by a mile.

Inigo watched dumbfounded as the Masked man struck a perfect landing, as theatrical as it was impressive, as if he was a circus performer who trained for years simply to perform this single move. With a flourish he pulled out his sword and assumed his perfect, impeccable form.

“Who are you?” Inigo asked with brows raised.

“No one of consequence.”

“I must know.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

Inigo shrugged. “Okay.”

The man in black launched his greatest assault. It came with no warning and the speed and strength of it were terrifying. His blade flashed in the light again and again, and at first, Inigo was only too delighted to retreat. He was not entirely familiar with the style of the attack; it was mostly McBone, but there were snatches of Capo Ferro thrown in, and he continued moving backward while he concentrated on the enemy, figuring the best way to stop the assault.

The man in black kept advancing, and Inigo was aware that behind him now he was coming closer and closer to the edge of a crumbled wall. They both jumped onto the weather worn stone and balanced.

Inigo lunged in perfect form as the masked man hopped on the wall, excessively with flair. The man in black parried, thrust, and in one smooth motion disarmed Inigo again — sending his sword flying high in the air.

Inigo scrambled back to where the sword would fall, the Masked man skipped atop a nice square pile of stones and resumed his perfect form.

The sword fell through the air—

—suspended for naught but a moment—

—Inigo caught it.

Immediately he sent low thrusting blows towards the masked mans legs.

Immediately they were deflected as the masked man jumped down and forced Inigo into the open aired dirt floor courtyard proper.

There was no terrain to mess with, no cliff to watch out for. They would fight, one on one, skill against skill alone.

They flashed along the open plateau now, and the blades were both invisible, but oh, the Earth trembled, and ohhhh, the skies shook, and Inigo was losing. He tried to make for the trees, but the man in black would have none of it. He tried retreating to the boulders, but that was denied him too.

And in the open, unthinkable as it was, the man in black was superior. Not much. But in a multitude of tiny ways, he was of a slightly higher quality. A hair quicker, a fraction stronger, a speck faster. Not really much at all.

But it was enough.

They met in center plateau for the final assault. Neither man conceded anything. The sound of metal clashing metal rose. A final burst of energy flew through Inigo's veins and he made every attempt, tried every trick, used every hour of every day of his years of experience.

But he was blocked.

By the man in black.

He was shackled.

By the man in black.

He was baffled, thwarted, muzzled.

Beaten.

By the man in black.

A final flick and the great six-fingered sword went flying from his hand. Inigo stood there, helpless. Then he dropped to his knees, bowed his head, closed his eyes.

"Kill me quickly," he said.

“I would as soon destroy a stained-glass window as an artist like yourself. However, since I can't have you following me either....”

He swung his sword clubbing Inigo in the back of the head with the butt of his weapon.

“Ughh...” Inigo moaned, falling face first into the dirt unconscious.

“Please understand I hold you in the highest respect.” The Man apologized.

Then hejogged to the cliff side picking up his leather scabbard, sheathed his sword, picked up the Sicilian's trail, and raced into the distance. . . . intent on catching theSicilian before he reached the Guilder frontier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was by far the most difficult chapter so far, as there’s not much from the script to expand upon in small ways — and the book is the exact opposite (the fight happens by moonlight)
> 
> Ultimately, I’m satisfied with this chapter, as doing a blow-by-blow description of the fight added too much, and took away from the fast paced drama.
> 
> I’ve done this one on my phone. There may be some typos.
> 
> Also not to be vain, but if any of y’all could comment to give constructive feedback I’d appreciate it.
> 
> Got told that the writing in chapter 1 is a bit choppy, which is how Goldman wrote it, and I’m riding the fine line of trying to write the novel as a continuation of his writing style—  
> —OR—  
> —to change the entire thing into a more drawn out but easier to read aloud form. 
> 
> Challenging decision that.


	7. Chapter Seven — THE BATTLE OF STRENGTH

**Chapter Seven**

**THE BATTLE OF STRENGTH**

They were hurrying along a mountainous path on the way to the Guilder frontier. The path was narrow and strewn with rocks like cannonballs, so the Sicilian had a terrible time keeping up. Fezzik carried Buttercup lightly on his shoulders; she was still tied hand and foot.

Halfway up a hill, nearby boulders, Vizzini spotted the black figuremoving towards them.

“INCONCEIVABLE!” Vizzini shouted, looking off into the distance. “Give her to me!” He shouted to Fezzik, “Catch up with us quickly.”

“What do I do?” Fezzik wondered.

“FINISH HIM, FINISH HIM! YOUR WAY!”

“Oh good, my way. Thank you, Vizzini.” Fezzik paused to think.

It had been so long since he had the chance to fight someone without explicit instructions — he was struggling to remember how.

“Which way's my way?”

Vizzini struggled to keep his rage in check. He did what he frequently did in such times, when stabbing someone was not a option. Taking a breath in, and exhaling out, still very frustrated, Vizzini dumbed down the instructions.

“Pick up one of those rocks, get behind the boulder. In a few minutes the man in black will come running around the bend. The minute his head is in view, HIT IT WITH THE ROCK!!”

Fezzik wrinkled his brows.

“My way's not very sportsmanlike.”

The Sicilian lost control. It was terrifying when he did it. With most people, they scream and holler and jump around. With Vizzini, it was different: he got very very quiet, and his voice sounded like it came from a dead throat. And his eyes turned to fire. "I tell you this and I tell it once: stop the man in black. Stop him for good and all. If you fail, there will be no excuses; I will find another giant."

"Please don't desert me," Fezzik said.

"Then do as you are told." He grabbed hold of Buttercup again and hobbled up the mountain path and out of sight.

Fezzik glanced down toward the figure racing up the path toward him. Still a good distance away. Time enough to practice. Fezzik picked up a rock the size of a cannonball and aimed at a crack in the mountain thirty yards away.

Swoosh.

Dead center.

He picked up a bigger rock and threw it at a shadow line twice as distant.

Not quite swoosh.

Two inches to the right.

Fezzik was reasonably satisfied. Two inches off would still crush a head if you aimed for the center. He groped around, found a perfect rock for throwing; it just fit his hand. Then he moved to the sharp turn in the path, backed off into deepest shadow. Unseen, silent, he waited patiently with his killing rock, counting the seconds until the man in black would die. . . .

So be it.

But not by ambush. Not the coward's way. Nothing unsportsmanlike. His parents had always taught him to go by the rules. Fezzik stood in shadow, the great rock tight in his great hand. He could hear the footsteps of the man in black coming nearer. 

Nearer.

Fezzik leaped from hiding and threw the rock with incredible power and perfect accuracy. It smashed into a boulder a foot away from the face of the man in black.

"I did that on purpose," Fezzik said then, picking up another rock, holding it ready. "I didn't have to miss."

"I believe you," the man in black said.

They stood facing each other on the narrow mountain path.

Now what happens?" asked the man in black.

"We face each other as God intended," Fezzik said. "No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone."

"You mean you'll put down your rock and I'll put down my sword and we'll try to kill each other like civilized people, is that it?"

"If you'd rather, I can kill you now," Fezzik said gently, and he raised the rock to throw.

"I'm giving you a chance."

"So you are and I accept it," said the man in black, and he began to take off his sword and scabbard. "Although, frankly, I think the odds are slightly in your favor at hand fighting."

"I tell you what I tell everybody," Fezzik explained. "I cannot help being the biggest and strongest; it's not my fault. I don't even exercise.”

"I'm not blaming you," said the man in black.

"Let's get to it then," Fezzik said, and he dropped his rock and got into fighting position, watching as the man in black slowly moved toward him.

For a moment, Fezzik felt almost wistful. This was clearly a good fellow, even if he had killed Inigo. He didn't complain or try and beg or bribe. He just accepted his fate. No complaining, nothing like that. Obviously a criminal of character. (Was he a criminal, though, Fezzik wondered. Surely the mask would indicate that. Or was it worse than that: was he disfigured? His face burned away by acid perhaps? Or perhaps born hideous?)

"Why do you wear a mask and hood?" Fezzik asked.

"I think everybody will in the near future" was the man in black's reply. "They're terribly comfortable."

They faced each other on the mountain path. There was a moment's pause. Then they engaged. Fezzik let the man in black fiddle around for a bit, tested the man's strength, which was considerable for someone who wasn't a giant. He let the man in black feint and dodge and try a hold here, a hold there.

“Look, are you just fiddling around with me or what?” The Masked man asked.

“I just want you to feel you're doing well. I hate for people to die embarrassed.” Fezzik replied.

Then, when he was quite sure the man in black would not go to his maker embarrassed, Fezzik locked his arms tight around.

Fezzik lifted.

And squeezed.

And squeezed.

Then he took the remains of the man in black, snapped him one way, snapped him the other, cracked him with one hand in the neck, with the other at the spine base, locked his legs up, rolled his limp arms around them, and tossed the entire bundle of what had once been human into a nearby crevice.

That was the theory, anyway.

In fact, what happened was this:

Fezzik lifted.

And squeezed.

And the man in black slipped free.

Hmmm, thought Fezzik, that certainly was a surprise. I thought for sure I had him.

"You're very quick," Fezzik complimented.

"And a good thing too," said the man in black.

Then they engaged again. This time Fezzik did not give the man in black a chance to fiddle. He just grabbed him, swung him around his head once, twice, smashed his skull against the nearest boulder, pounded him, pummeled him, gave him a final squeeze for good measure and tossed the remains of what once had been alive into a nearby crevice.

Those were his intentions, anyway.

In actuality, he never even got through the grabbing part with much success. Because no sooner had Fezzik's great hands reached out than the man in black dropped and spun and twisted and was loose and free and still quite alive.

I don't understand a thing that's happening, Fezzik thought. Could I be losing my strength? Could there be a mountain disease that takes your strength? There was a desert disease that took my parents' strength. That must be it, I must have caught a plague, but if that is it, why isn't he weak? No, I must still be strong, it has to be something else, now what could it be?

“You're quick.” Fezzik said.

“And a good thing, too.” The masked man replied, dodging Fezzik’s mighty blows.

“Why are you wearing a mask?” Fezzik huffed while flailing his arms. “Were you burned by acid or something like that?”

“Oh no,” The masked man replied, dodging his head, getting two words in to every one of Fezzik’s blows. “It's just they're terribly comfortable. I think everyone'll be wearing them in the future.”

“I just figured why you give me so much trouble.” Fezzik said aloud.

Suddenly he knew. He had not fought against one man in so long he had all but forgotten how. He had been fighting groups and gangs and bunches for so many years, that the idea of having but a single opponent was slow in making itself known to him.

Because you fought them entirely differently. When there were twelve against you, you made certain moves, tried certain holds, acted in certain ways. When there was but one, you had to completely readjust yourself. Quickly now, Fezzik went back through time.

How had he fought the champion of Sandiki? He flashed through that fight in his mind, then reminded himself of all the other victories against other champions, the men from Ispir and Simal and Bolu and Zile. He remembered fleeing Constantinople because he had beaten their champion so quickly. So easily.

Yes, Fezzik thought. Of course. And suddenly he readjusted his style to what it once had been.

But by that time the man in black had him by the throat!

“Why's that, do you think?” The masked man said with his iron grip on his throat.

The man in black was riding him, and his arms were locked across Fezzik's windpipe, one in front, one behind. Fezzik reached back but the man in black was hard to grasp.

“Well, I haven't fought just one person for so long. I've been specializing in groups. Battling gangs for local charities, that kind of thing.” Fezzek flung his arms back, trying to pull the masked man off his back.

Fezzik could not get his arms around to his back and dislodge the enemy. Fezzik ran at a boulder and, at the last moment, spun around so that the man in black received the main force of the charge. It was a terrible jolt; Fezzik knew it was.

But the grip on his windpipe grew ever tighter.

“Why should that make such a — ugh — difference?” The masked man said in a strained voice.

Fezzik charged the boulder again, again spun, and again he knew the power of the blow the man in black had taken. But still the grip remained. Fezzik clawed at the man in black's arms. He pounded his giant fists against them.

“Well, you see, you use different moves when you're fighting half a dozen people than when you only have to be worried about ... one.”

By now he had no air.

Fezzik continued to struggle. He could feel a hollowness in his legs now; he could see the world beginning to pale. But he did not give up. He was the mighty Fezzik, lover of rhymes, and you did not give up, no matter what. Now the hollowness was in his arms and the world was snowing.

Fezzik went to his knees.

He pounded still, but feebly. He fought still, but his blows would not have harmed a child.

No air. There was no more air. There was no more anything, not for Fezzik, not in this world.

I am beaten, I am going to die, he thought just before he fell onto the mountain path.

He was only half wrong.

There is an instant between unconsciousness and death, and as the giant pitched onto the rocky path, that instant happened, and just before it happened, the man in black let go.

He staggered to his feet and leaned against a boulder until he could walk. Fezzik lay sprawled, faintly breathing. The man in black looked around for a rope to secure the giant, gave up the search almost as soon as he'd begun. What good were ropes against strength like this. He would simply snap them. The man in black made his way back to where he'd dropped his sword. He put it back on.

“I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awake.”The man in black talked to Fezzik’s unconscious form. “But, in the meantime, rest well, and dream of large women.”

Two down and (the hardest) one to go . . .

Vizzini was waiting for him.


	8. Chapter Eight — THE BATTLE OF SMARTS

When the masked man made the longer trek to the Sicilian, he was perplexed. The distance he ran was not long comparatively, given, he was tired,yes, but his eyes must have been playing tricks on him; for what other reason would there be a picnic set up in the midst of the path?

Indeed, he had set out a little picnic spread. From the knapsack that he always carried, he had taken a small handkerchief and on it he had placed two wine goblets. In the center was a small leather wine holder and, beside it, some cheese and some apples.

The spot could not have been lovelier: a high point of the mountain path with a splendid view all the way back to Florin Channel. Buttercup sat helpless beside the picnic, gagged and tied and blindfolded.

Vizzini held his long knife against her white throat.

"Welcome," Vizzini called when the man in black was almost upon them.

The man in black stopped and surveyed the situation.

"You've beaten my Giant," Vizzini said.

"It would seem so."

"And now it is down to you. And it is down to me."

"So that would seem too," the man in black said, edging a half-step closer to the Sicilians long knife.

With a smile the Sicilian pushed the knife harder against Buttercup's throat. It was about to bring blood. "If you wish her dead, by all means, keep moving forward," Vizzini said.

The man in black froze.

“Let me explain—“ he began to speak, before Vizzini interrupted him.

“—There's nothing to explain. You're trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen.”

“Perhaps an arrangement can be reached?” The masked man suggested, inching closer still.

“There will be no arrangement,” Vizzini snarled, pushing through blade closer to the skin, “and you're killing her.”

He pushed the blade deeper to Buttercups nape, grabbing her arm in a rough gesture.

Buttercup stilled and froze with fright.

The masked man stood.

Stood and thought.

“Well if there can be no arrangement, then we are at an impasse.”

“I'm afraid so.” Vizzini spoke; blade still on Buttercups bare throat.”I can't compete with you physically, and you're no match for my brains.”

“You're that smart?” The man in black asked quizzically.

Vizzini scoffed. “Let me put it this way: have you ever heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates?”

“Yes.”

“Morons.”

“Really?” The Man in Black curiously asked. “In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

“For the princess?”

The man nodded once.

“To the death?”

He nodded again.

“I accept.” Vizzini gleefully said, putting his dagger away.

Vizzini was beginning to get excited.

“Good. Then pour the wine.”

Vizzini refilled his glass, and poured more red wine into the other. The masked man pulled out a small reed vial, and broke the sheep fat seal carefully; taking his great dexterity to uncork the vial before handing it to the Sicilian.

“Inhale this, but do not touch.”

Vizzini took the offered vial and sniffed, “I smell nothing.”

“What you do not smell is called Iocane powder. It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is among the more deadly poisons known to man.”

“Hmmmm.” Vizzini murmured.

The Man in Black busied himself a long moment. Then he turned again with a goblet in each hand. Very carefully, he put the goblet in his right hand in front of Vizzini and put the goblet in his left hand across the kerchief from the Sicilian. He sat down in front of the left-hand goblet, and dropped the empty iocane packet by the cheese.

“All right. Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right...and who is dead.”

“But it's so simple.” Vizzini said naut a moment later.

“All I have to do is divine from what I know of you: are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own goblet or his enemy's?

Now — a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I am not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.

But you must have known I was not a great fool, you would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me!”

The man in Black smiled. “You've made your decision then?”

“Not remotely—”

Vizzini continued monologuing, stalling for time and digging for information.

“—Because iocane comes from Australia, as everyone knows, and Australia is entirely peopled with criminals, and criminals are used to having people not trust them, as you are not trusted by me, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”

“Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.” The Masked Man nodded adopting the thinkers pose; his black gloved hand hiding the grin threatening to fly off his chin.

“WAIT TILL I GET GOING!” Vizzini exclaimed. “...Where was I?”

“Australia.”

“Yes,” Vizzini continued, “Australia.”

Having found his train of thought, he continued digging for information.

“And you must have suspected I would have known the powder's origin, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“You're just stalling now.” The Man in Black.

“You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? You've beaten my giant, which means you're exceptionally strong, so you could've put the poison in your own goblet, trusting on your strength to save you, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.

But, you've also bested my Spaniard, which means you must have studied, and in studying you must have learned that man is mortal, so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“You're trying to trick me into giving away something.” The Masked Man humored the Sicilian. “It won't work.”

“IT HAS WORKED! YOU'VE GIVEN EVERYTHING AWAY! I KNOW WHERE THE POISON IS!”

“Then make your choice.” The Man in Black commanded.

The Sicilian only smiled at the outburst. Then a strange look crossed his features and he pointed off behind the man in black.

“I will, and I choose—“ Vizzini gestured off into the distance. “—What in the world can that be?”

“What? Where?” The Masked Man looked far off into the distance.

“I don't see anything.”

Turning back from looking at the rolling hills of the distance the Masked Man heard Vizzini speak.

Vizzini, quite cleverly, used the moment to swap goblets quietly while the Man in Black’s back was turned.

“Well, I- I could have sworn I saw something. No matter.”

Vizzini smirked a cruel smile.

He chuckled darkly.

“What's so funny?” The Man in Black wondered.

“I'll tell you in a minute. First, let's drink. Me from my glass, and you from yours.”

They raised their glasses. Vizzini kept looking o’er the rim of his goblet, looking at the Masked Man. They raised the glasses closer and closer, and both drank.

The Masked man took a deep drink, enjoying the red wine the Sicilian had on hand.

Vizzini — noticing the man drinking the obviously poisoned Goblet drank heavily himself.He was safe. After all, who would poison their own glass?

“You guessed wrong.” The Man in Black said putting his empty goblet down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!! Ha ha ha—“

Vizzini stopped laughing.

Vizzini froze.

Vizzini dropped dead.

There was a moment of silence.

And another.

The Man in Black reached forward and undid Buttercups blindfold.

“Who are you?” She asked, eyes blinking in the light.

"I heard everything that happ—" Buttercup began, and then she said "Oh" because she had never been next to a dead man before. "You killed him," she whispered finally.

"I let him die laughing," said the man in black. "Pray I do as much for you." He lifted her, slashed her bonds away, put her on her feet, started to pull her along.

"Please," Buttercup said. "Give me a moment to gather myself." The man in black released his grip.

Buttercup rubbed her wrists, stopped, massaged her ankles. She took a final look at the Sicilian. "To think," she murmured, "all that time it was your cup that was poisoned."

"They were both poisoned," said the man in black. "I've spent the past two years building up immunity to iocane powder."

Buttercup looked up at him. He was terrifying to her, masked and hooded and dangerous; his voice was strained, rough. "Who are you?" she asked.

"I am no one to be trifled with," replied the man in black. "That is all you ever need to know." And with that he yanked her upright. "You've had your moment." Again he pulled her after him, and this time she could do nothing but follow.

They moved along the mountain path. The daylight was very bright, and there were rocks everywhere, and to Buttercup it all looked dead and yellow, like the floor of a decaying forest.

She had just spent several hours with three men who were openly planning to kill her. So why, she wondered, was she more frightened now than then?

Who was the horrid hooded figure to strike fear in her so?

What could be worse than dying?

"I will pay you a great deal of money to release me," she managed to say.

The man in black glanced at her. "You are rich, then?"

"I will be," Buttercup said. "Whatever you want for ransom, I promise I'll get it for you if you'll let me go."

The man in black just laughed.

"I was not speaking in jest."

"You promise? You? I should release you on your promise? What is that worth? The vow of a woman? Oh, that is very funny, Highness. Spoken in jest or not." They proceeded along the mountain path to an open space. The man in black stopped then.

There were a million blades of grass fighting for prominence, swaying in the wind, each sway of the ground and chirp of a hawk telling a story of who and what was around; and for a moment he seemed to be intent on nothing less than studying them all, as Buttercup watched his eyes flick fromsound to sound behind his mask.

Then, with no warning, he spun off the path, heading into wild terrain, pulling her behind him.

She stumbled; he pulled her to her feet; again she fell; again he righted her.

"I cannot move this quickly."

"You can! And you will! Or you will suffer greatly. Do you think I could make you suffer greatly?"

Buttercup nodded.

"Then run!" cried the man in black, and he broke into a run himself, flying across rocks, pulling the Princess behind him.

She did her best to keep up.

She was frightened as to what he would do to her, so she dared not fall again.

After five minutes, the man in black stopped dead. "Catch your breath," he commanded. “We have much left to run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schools started back up, might be a while for the next few chapters.
> 
> Next one will be Prince humperdinks POV and some more character building, before diving into the Fire Swamp.
> 
> Took a lot more creative editing with this chapter — honestly feel like I could still edit it severely, but this seems good enough to fit the narrative flow.


	9. Chapter Nine — THE HUNTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again; taking liberty with the story structure. The Movie version had prince humperdinks exploration be cut up into little snippets — mixed with the battle of steel and strength, and so on. Giving the Prince his own chapter seems to fit a little bit better into a story’s narrative viewpoint, at least from a ‘bedtime’ story perspective (in my personal biased opinion).
> 
> Again, if there’s anything thats sticking out being badly written, weather it be typo’s or the overusage of superfluous language — leave a comment/ critique about what could be done better; what you’d prefer to be done better. Etc, etc. 
> 
> My kids getting prepped for surgery as I’m finishing up typing this. 
> 
> Next chapter may be a while.

**CHAPTER NINE**

**THE HUNTER**

They did not speak for hours. They just ran, and ran, and when Buttercup was spent, he would stop, release her hand. She would try to catch her breath for the next dash — however long the Man in Black would let her; and then, without a sound, he would grab her and off they would go.

They stopped. Buttercup sank to rest.

The Man in Black stood silently over her.

“Your love comes, not alone,” he said then.

Buttercup did not understand.

The Man in Black pointed back the way they had come.

Buttercup stared, and as she did, the waters of Florin Channel seemed as filled with light as the sky was filled with stars.

"He must have ordered every ship in Florin after you," the Man in Black said. "Such a sight I have never seen."

He stared at all the lanterns on all the ships as they moved.

"You can never escape him," Buttercup said. "If you release me, I promise that you will come to no harm."

"You are much too generous; I could never accept such an offer."

"I offered you your life, that was generous enough."

"Highness!" said the Man in Black, and his hands were suddenly at her throat. "If there is talk of life to be done, let me do it."

"You would not kill me. You did not steal me from murderers to murder me yourself."

"Wise as well as loving," said the Man in Black.

He jerked her to her feet, and they ran over the crest of the mountain top towards a great ravine off in the distance. It was hundreds of feet deep, and filled with rocks and trees and lifting shadows. Abruptly, the Man in Black stopped, stared back at the Armada.

The Armada began to fire signal cannons.

The explosions echoed through the mountains.

The man in black stared as the ships began to change formation.

"To be honest," he said, "I had not expected quite so many."

"You can never predict my Prince; that is why he is the greatest hunter."

"I wonder," said the Man in Black, "will he stay in one group or will he divide, some to search the coastline, some to follow your path on land? What do you think?"

"I only know he will find me. And if you have not given me my freedom first, he will not treat you gently."

"Surely he must have discussed things with you? The thrill of the hunt. What has he done in the past with many ships?"

"We do not discuss hunting, that I can assure you."

"Not hunting, not love, what do you talk about?"

"We do not see all that much of each other."

"Tender couple."

Buttercup could feel the upset coming. "We are always very honest with each other. Not everyone can say as much."

"May I please tell you something, Highness? You're very cold—"

"I'm not—"

"—very cold and very young, and if you live, I think you'll turn to hoarfrost—"

"Why do you pick at me? I have come to terms with my life, and that is my affair—I am not cold, I swear, but I have decided certain things, it is best for me to ignore emotion; I have not been happy dealing with it—" Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.

The Man in Black scoffed. “You will soon find out Highness, you will soon.”

And with that cheery note, the Man in Black yanked on Buttercups hand, and they ran once more.

From his position at the point of the Armada, Prince Humperdinck stared up at the Cliffs of Insanity. This was just like any other hunt. He made himself think away the quarry. It did not matter if you were after an antelope or a bride-to-be; the procedures held.

You gathered evidence.

Then you acted.

You studied, then you performed.

If you studied too little, the chances were strong that your actions would also be too late. You had to take time. And so, frozen in thought, he continued to stare up the sheer face of the Cliffs.

Obviously, someone had recently climbed them. There were foot scratchings all the way up a straight line, which meant, most certainly, a rope, an arm-over-arm climb up a thousand-foot rope with occasional foot kicks for balance. To make such a climb required both strength and planning, so the Prince made those marks in his brain: my enemy is strong; my enemy is not impulsive.

Now his eyes reached a point perhaps three hundred feet from the top.

Here it began to get interesting.

Now the foot scratchings were deeper, more frequent, and they followed no direct ascending line. Either someone left the rope three hundred feet from the top intentionally, which made no sense, or the rope was cut while that someone was still three hundred feet from safety. For clearly, this last part of the climb was made up the rock face itself. But who had such talent? And why had he been called to exercise it at such a deadly time, seven hundred feet above disaster?

"I must examine the tops of the Cliffs of Insanity," the Prince said, without bothering to turn. From behind him, Count Rugen only said, "Done," and awaited further instructions.

"Send half the Armada south along the coastline, the other north. They should meet by twilight near the Fire Swamp. Our ship will sail to the first landing possibility, and you will follow me with your soldiers. Ready the whites."

Count Rugen signaled the cannoneer, and the Prince's instructions boomed along the Cliffs. Within minutes, the Armada had begun to split, with only the Prince's giant ship sailing alone closest to the coastline, looking for a landing possibility.

"There!" the Prince ordered, some time later, and his ship began maneuvering into the cove for a safe place to anchor. That took time, but not much, because the Captain was skilled and, more than that, the Prince was quick to lose patience and no one dared risk that.

Humperdinck jumped from ship to shore, a plank was lowered, and the whites were led to ground. Of all his accomplishments, none pleased the Prince as did these horses.

Someday he would have an army of them, but getting the bloodlines perfect was a slow business. He now had four whites and they were identical. Snowy, tireless giants. Twenty hands high. On flatland, nothing could catch them, and even on hills and rocky terrain, there was nothing short of Araby close to their equal. The Prince, when rushed, rode all four, bareback, the only way he ever rode, riding one, leading three, changing beasts in mid-stride, so that no single animal had to bear his bulk to the tiring point.

Now he mounted and was gone.

It took him considerably less than an hour to reach the edge of the Cliffs of Insanity. He dismounted, went to his knees, commenced his study of the terrain. There had been a rope tied around a giant oak. The bark at the base was broken and scraped, so probably whoever first reached the top untied the rope and whoever was on the rope at that moment was three hundred feet from the peak and somehow survived the climb.

A great jumble of footprints caused him trouble. It was hard to ascertain what had gone on. Perhaps a conference, because two sets of footprints seemed to lead off while one remained pacing the cliff edge. Then there were two on the cliff edge. Humperdinck examined the prints until he was certain of two things: (1) a fencing match had taken place, (2) the combatants were both masters.

The stride length, the quickness of the foot feints, all clearly revealed to his unfailing eye, made him reassess his second conclusion. They were at least masters. Probably better.

Then he closed his eyes and concentrated on smelling out the blood. Surely, in a match of such ferocity, blood must have been spilled. Now it was a matter of giving his entire body over to his sense of smell. The Prince had worked at this for many years, ever since a wounded tigress had surprised him from a tree limb while he was tracking her. He had let his eyes follow the blood hunt then, and it had almost killed him. Now he trusted only his olfactories. If there was blood within a hundred yards, he would find it.

He opened his eyes, moved without hesitation toward a group of large boulders until he found the blood drops. There were few of them, and they were dry. But less than three hours old. Humperdinck smiled. When you had the whites under you, three hours was a finger snap.

He retraced the duel then, for it confused him. It seemed to range from cliff edge and back, then return to the cliff edge. And sometimes the left foot seemed to be leading, sometimes the right, which made no logical sense at all. Clearly swordsmen were changing hands, but why would a master do that unless his good arm was wounded to the point of uselessness, and that clearly had not happened, because a wound of that depth would have left blood spoors and there was simply not enough blood in the area to indicate that.

Strange, strange. Humperdinck continued his wanderings. Stranger still, the battle could not have ended in death. He knelt by the outline of a body. Clearly, a man had lain unconscious here. But again, no blood.

"There was a mighty duel," Prince Humperdinck said, directing his comment toward Count Rugen, who had finally caught up, together with a contingent of a hundred mounted men-at-arms. "My guess would be . . ." And for a moment the Prince paused, following footsteps. "Would be that whoever fell here, ran off there," and he pointed one way, "and that whoever was the victor ran off along the mountain path in almost precisely the opposite direction. It is also my opinion that the victor was following the path taken by the Princess."

"Shall we follow them both?" the Count asked.

"I think not," Prince Humperdinck replied. "Whoever is gone is of minimal importance, since whoever has the Princess is the whoever we're after. And because we don't know the nature of the trap we might be being led into, we need all the arms we have in one band. Clearly, this had been planned by countrymen of Guilder, and nothing must ever be put past them."

"You think this is a trap, then?" the Count asked.

"I always think everything is a trap until proven otherwise," the Prince answered. "Which is why I'm still alive."

And with that, he was back aboard a white and galloping.

When he reached the mountain path where the hand fight happened, the Prince did not even bother dismounting. Everything that could be seen was quite visible from horseback.

"Someone has beaten a giant," he said, when the Count was close enough. "The giant has run away, do you see?"

The Count, of course, saw nothing but rock and mountain path. "I would not think to doubt you."

"And look there!" cried the Prince, because now he saw, for the first time, in the rubble of the mountain path, the footsteps of a woman. "The Princess is alive!"

And again the whites were thundering across the mountain.

When the Count caught up with him again, the Prince was kneeling over the still body of a hunchback. The Count dismounted. "Smell this," the Prince said, and he handed up a goblet.

"Nothing," the Count said. "No odor at all."

"Iocane," the Prince replied. "I would bet my life on it. I know of nothing else that kills so silently." He stood up then. "She's alive, or was an hour ago. If she is otherwise when I find her, I shall very put out. Her footprints follow the path." He shouted at the hundred mounted men: "There will be great suffering in Guilder if she dies!"

They rode quick towards the mouth of the mountain pass, along the mountain path, following footsteps that he alone could see. And when those footsteps left the path for wilder terrain, he followed still. Strung out behind him, the Count and all the soldiers did their best to keep up. Men stumbled, horses fell, even the Count tripped from time to time. Prince Humperdinck never even broke stride. He rode steadily, mechanically, rushing with great speed towards the nape of the mountain for higher ground.

Two hours later he reached the steep rocks.

"Odd," he said to the Count, who was tiring badly.

The Count continued only to breathe deeply.

“There seems to be no one here.”

The sun was shining high up in the sky.

Down below the mountain dipped, it’s terrain change seeming smoothly even for a while, and then dipping down into a sudden ravine.

Prince Humperdink moved around the bend of the path, casting his eyes once o’er — as keen as a hawk.

He saw nothing.

“What do you see?” The Count huffed.

“Nothing,” The Prince was aghast, “ not one thing.”

Moments later he noticed thin tracks, traversing over the hardest of rock, bounding between the softest of moss. Were it not for the particular angle of the sun, even his keen eyes would have missed the tracks.

Him!

The worlds best Hunter!

“There!” He cried. “They’re running towards the Guilder Frontier!”

The count looked at the pristine ground, with nary a track in sight shrugging.

“But the frontier is that way,” he pointed slightly off into the distance, “surely doubling back like this would create more of a issue? It would seem that whoever this is is going through a lot of trouble — aren’t they sire?”

“So it would seem.” Replied the Prince.

“So it would seem.”


	10. The Pirate

Along a hilltop, on the very edge of the plateau, the Man in Black sprinted pullin Princess Buttercupalongside the mountains crest. Heading, racing, ever so steadily towards the Great Ravine.

The Masked Man kept urging the Princess. To run faster, as the sun rose steadily in the sky. To run harder, to outpace the horses and spy glasses of Florin ships. To run nimbler, leaving naut a trace for the Prince to follow.

They ran, and they ran, and they ran. Until the princess could barely breathe. Until dark spots crisscrossed her vision like stars suspended in an empty sky devoid of nebulas. Until the Man in Black could pull her no further.

“Catch your breath.” The Masked Man roughly said,throwing her towards a boulder.

Buttercup heaved great breaths, panting and not knowing how much further running was yet to come.

“If you'll release me, whatever you ask for ransom, you'll get it, I promise you.” She pleaded uselessly.

The Man in Blacks sole response was cruel laughter.

“And what is that worth, the promise of a woman? You're very funny, Highness.”

It was a harsh laugher, colder than cruel. Colder than the eel infested water Buttercup swam through a few scant hours past. Colder than the fear in her heart upon learning ofVizzini’s plans.It was the coldness of stars in the sky, utterly incapable of caring. Utterly indifferent to suffering.

There was nothing—not one thing—that the Princess could do to change the Masked Man’s mind.

Still.

She had to try.

Her very life depended upon it.

And futilelessly, she did.

“I was giving you a chance. It does not matter where you take me. There is no greater hunter than Prince Humperdinck. He can track a falcon on a cloudy day. He can find you.”

The man paused.

He paused and thought aloud. Seemingly less for himself than to confirm something from her.

“You think your dearest love will save you?”

“I never said he was my dearest love, and yes, he will save me. That I know.”

“You admit to me that you do not love your fiance.”

“He knows I do not love him.”

“Are not capable of love is what you mean.”

“I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream.”

The Man in Black raised his arm to strike a blow across her face for the sheer disrespect shown.

She flinched.

The arm stood still.

He lowered his hand, furious with anger, jabbing a gloved hand into Buttercups face and spoke.

“That was a warning, Highness. The next time my hand flies on its own, for where I come from, there are penalties when a woman lies.”

Buttercup, numb from fear and lost for words, stiffly nodded in agreement. 

Without another word, he grabbed her arm, and they ran once more.

They ran, and they ran, and they ran.

Buttercup, exhausted as she were, scarcely had time to think. All that was going thought her mind was the pounding of her heart in her head, the feeling of her breath in her legs. In one breath—right foot—out one breath—left foot. It went on seemingly without end. All the princess could focus on were her breath, and her steps, following whatever commands the Man in Black sternly whispered.

And then in the midst of it all, as she ran for her life, a thought wormed its way into her head.

What was the Masked Mans plan?

He was not planning to kill her, or else surely he’d have done so by now? As a matter of fact, he had gone through a lot of effort to rescue her from Vizzini. Why? If not to release her to the Prince for ransom then for what purpose?

Why were they running?

Who was the Masked Man?

She could not think of a reason.

And it terrified her.

They ran until Buttercup could run no more, tiptoeing the edge of the ravine. Balancing at the very lip like a pair of tightrope acrobats. The Great Ravine was steep, stooped in shadow. Buttercups gaze drifted to its sharp jagged edges. It was a long way down.A fall risked both life and limb.

Suddenly, Buttercup felt the Masked Man harsh pull as he threw her against a boulder. Buttercup panting for breath mulling her options. The Man in Black scarily breathing at all.

“Rest, Highness.” He commanded.

“I know who you are. Your cruelty reveals everything.” Buttercup gasped. It was obvious in hindsight, who the Masked Man really was. “You're the Dread Pirate Roberts, admit it!”

He smiled and bowed theatrically. Sarcastically.

“With pride. What can I do for you?”

“You can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk. Hardly complimentary, your Highness. Why loose your venom on me?”

“You killed my love.”

Admitting those four words, physically speaking them aloud, shattered her heart. Cold as it was, frozen from pain. Speaking those four words brought all the pain back as if the last few years had been a bad fever dream.

You killed my love.

Here she was, in the company of the very man who killed Westley. The Dread Pirate Roberts.

He killed her love.

Sweet, sweet innocent Westley.

Her heart, frozen by choice for oh-so-long, broke anew. She had imagined this, in so many different ways, of finally confronting the Dread Pirate Roberts. Perhaps using her looks to entice him with poisoned ale. Perhaps tricking him by sailing a ship full of loaded powder.Some way to take revenge, to make him feel the pain that had consumed her for over five years.

Living each day empty inside.

“It’s possible.” The Pirate answered leisurely walking to a fallen branch, sitting comfortably on the ground. “I kill a lot of people. Who was this love of yours? Another prince like this one, ugly, rich, and scabby?”

“No.” Buttercup spoke, her voice soft with the fondness of memory. “A farm boy. Poor. Poor and perfect. With eyes like the sea after a storm…” A tear slipped unbidden down her cheek. She blinked it away, turning her eyes to the Pirate in front of her. Mocking her. “On the high seas, your ship attacked. And the dread pirate Roberts never takes prisoners.”

The Pirate looked relaxed. Unworried in the slightest. Kicked back with arms crossed behind his head, as if he were lounging on the beach.

“I can't afford to make exceptions. I mean once word leaks out that a pirate has gone soft, people begin to disobey you and it's nothing but work, work, work all the time.”

“You mock my pain!” Buttercup yelled gazing at the pirate. With a mask, she could not see much of his face. The only things except for the mouth she could look upon were the Pirate’s cruel eyes. Eyes the same color of the sea that Westley had…

“Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” He paused, swinging his arms back, standing back up.

Buttercup blinked tears from her eyes, and tore her gaze away from the Dread Pirate.

Whoever he was, eyes a churning blue grey,so reminiscent of her farm boy one thing was clear—he was not Westley.

His eyes, ever so close to the color and shape of her love were dark like the night.

If Westley’s eyes were the color of the sea after a storm, the Dread Pirates were the color of sea in the lull of a storm. Churning, tumultuous, quiet—for a moment. Utter stillness with the promise of impending violence. Sudden drastic change for the worse. The false sense of security before a tidal wave unknowing what the retreating ocean signified. 

“I remember this farm boy of yours, I think. This would be what, five years ago? Does it bother you to hear?”

Buttercup, head turned away murmured, lost in memory. “Nothing you can say will upset me.”

The pirate nodded, continuing his morbid tale.

“He died well. That should please you. No bribe attempts or blubbering. He simply said, "Please...please, I need to live. It was the ‘please’ that caught my memory. I asked him what was so important for him here. ‘True Love’, he replied. And then he spoke of a girl of surpassing beauty and faithfulness. I can only assume he meant you. You should bless me for destroying him before he found out what you really are.”

“And what am I?”

“Faithfulness he talked of, madame, your enduring fathfulness.” The Dread Pirate practically roared. “Now tell me truly, when you found out he was gone, did you get engaged to your prince that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?”

“You mocked me once. Never do it again! I died that day!” Buttercup, heart sharp with pain, blinked through tears pausing for a moment in sheer fury wishing nothing more than to push the pirate from the cliff. “And you can die too for all I care!”

Buttercup pushed the Dread Pirate Roberts, the Masked Man down the ravine. He tumbled, grunting with every impact. He rolled, black mask coming off revealing blond hair so reminiscent of Westley she nearly turned around. He shouted something, words punctuated by impacts of the rocks.

“As... you... wish!!”

“Oh my sweet Westley, what have I done?”

It wasn’t Buttercups imagination of seeing the familiar gaze, or the storm grey eyes. It was Westley, her Westley, all along. Without another thought Buttercup threw herself down the ravine, eyes only towards the black tumbling form, making sure to follow the same path as her love.

Had she looked back just for just a moment she would have seen Prince Humperdinck and his entourage approaching nearer.

“Can you move at all?” Westley asked, scurrying over on the Ravine floor to Buttercups sore still form.

“Move? You're alive! If you want I can fly.”

“I told you I would always come for you. Why didn't you wait for me?”

“Well, you were dead.”

“Death cannot stop True Love. All it can do is delay it for a while.”

Buttercup gazed into Westley’s deep blue eyes. “I will never doubt again.”

Westley quietly responded.

“There will never be a need.”

They kissed for the first time in years. Feverishly, like lightning arching from the ground to the sky. Like when they were younger, still unsure about the depth of love and life. Keeping eye and a ear out for those who might encroach on their space. They kissed on the ravine floor like the rest of the world didn’t matter. Moments that felt like years.

But all moments pass. Prince Humperdinck was approaching closer to the ravine with every gallop of a horses hooves.

Westley and Buttercup came to, knowing they needed to find some way to escape the Hunter. With one glance to each other, they nodded and moved.

Westley and Buttercup raced along the ravine floor.

Ahead loomed the dark of the Fire Swamp.

“Ha! Your pig fiance is too late. A few more steps and we'll be safe in the fire swamp.”

“We'll never survive.”

“Nonsense.” Westley scoffed. “You're only saying that because no one ever has.”

And with that statement the pair of lovers daringly dashed into the Fire Swamp. Vanishing into the marshy trees before the white horses of the Prince crested over the curve of the Ravine. They were safe. Momentarily.


End file.
